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THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


By ETHEL HUESTON 

Prudence of the Parsonage 
Prudence Says So 
Prudence^s Sister 
Prudence’s Daughter 
Leave It to Doris 
Eve to the Rescue 
Merry 0 

SWEDEY 

Coasting Down East 

Idle Island 

Ginger Ella 

Ginger and Speed 

The People of This Town 

Birds Fly South 

For Ginger’s Sake 

Rowena Rides the Rumble 

Good Times 

That Hastings Girl 

Blithe Baldwin 

Beauty for Sale 

Star of the West 

The Man of the Storm 

A Roof Over Their Heads 

Calamity Jane of Deadwood Gulch 

High Bridge 


iJrnjTiTJTJijTmTJTj^^ 


The Honorable 


UNCLE LANCY 


by 

Ethel Hueston 



THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY 

Publishers 

INDIANAPOLIS NEW YORK 




c 






Copyright, 1939 , by the Bobbs-Merrill Company 

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 


First Edition 




■fS 13 1939 


PRINTED AND BOUND BY 
BRAUNWORTH & CO., INC. 
BUIUDERS OF BOOKS 
BRIDGEPORT. CONN 


g)ClA 1 24984 ^^^ 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


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Chapter I 


Aunt Olympia, the Senator’s wife (Mrs. Alen^on Dela- 
porte Slopshire, properly but rarely pronounced Slupshur) 
went to Iowa for the funeral. Even in their sorrow, the 
three girls tragically orphaned in the double bereavement 
took plaintive pleasure in that. It was no more than she 
should have done, being their mother’s own and only sister. 
Still, she was a senator’s wife, and young as they were 
and little as they had seen of her, the girls had learned 
that senators’ wives, even more than officeholders them- 
selves, make unlimited use of the safe alibi of “bills pend- 
ing.” This was an important session, too, it being election 
year. 

Aunt Olympia flew out from Washington. This added 
definite importance to her coming. For the most part, air 
service in Iowa is confined to the delivery of mail, stop-offs 
on transcontinental flights and significant political comings 
and goings. Although Aunt Olympia was a senator’s wife, 
not by any imaginative flight could political significance be 
attached to her attendance at the funeral. The Senator 
had no constituents to be placated there. Iowa was not 
his state. 

Brother Rasmusson, a deacon in the church that had 
been their father’s, drove over to meet her at the airport 
in Iowa City. Their own car would never run again. It 
lay in the garage of Bill Blakely — one of their members — a 
twisted and charred mass of metal from the collision with 

7 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


a drunken driver at the corner of North Square and Main. 
On prayer meeting night it had happened. The three girls, 
Helen, twenty-one, Adele, nineteen, and Limpy — ^named 
for Aunt Olympia — three years younger, felt tearful sor- 
row, even shame, that they had not gone to prayer meeting 
with their parents on that fateful night. When they went 
to prayer meeting — if even one of them went — ^their father 
always stopped at Karl’s Kandy Kitchen for an ice cream 
sundae on the way home. “Reward of merit,” he called it. 
“Baksheesh” the girls said it was, having gleefully adopted 
the word from the lecture of a returned missionary trying 
to raise funds for the further evangelization of heathen 
Near Easterners. 

On that terrible Wednesday night, if even one of them 
had gone, the half-hour spent over the sundaes at the 
Kandy Kitchen would have delayed their parents’ arrival 
at the corner of North Square and Main and there would 
have been no collision with the big car careening madly 
along the icy streets, with “poor Bob” Saunders drunk 
at the wheel. But that night only their father and mother 
had gone and now they lay together in a double casket in 
the Allan Funeral Parlor, awaiting burial on the morrow. 
Both had been instantly killed in the crash. “Poor Bob” 
had been tossed through the door and flung across thirty 
feet of ice and snow, and had incurred only a broken wrist 
and a bruised brow. 

The girls, watching from the window of the parsonage, 
saw Deacon Rasmusson drive carefully up to their curb, 
bringing Aunt Olympia from the airport. They did not, 
as in normal times, run happily down the steps to greet 
her but waited decorously inside the door while the Deacon 

8 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


assisted her up the icy, ash-strewn steps. Aunt Olympia 
was dressed in a modish gray woolen ensemble and draped 
in silver fox. In answer to what she took to be a faint 
questioning in the girls’ sad eyes, her first words were a 
hasty avowal that she had brought black for the funeral, 
though she disapproved of mourning. 

Aunt Olympia, who had turned violently red and sniffy 
at sight of the sheaf of wheat and frozen lilies on the 
front door, broke into open sobs in the presence of the 
three girls. They looked pale and young and frightened 
in their slim black gowns. Adele, both in mourning and 
out, was the beauty of the family, but Helen’s quiet dignity 
and maternal gentleness were appealing and the quivering 
eagerness of Limpy’s youth, half brave, half terrified, 
carried her straight to Aunt Olympia’s heaving bosom. 

Aunt Olympia had a series of emotional expressions, 
with which the girls later became amusedly familiar and 
to which in time they accorded the dignity of statistical 
numbers. The first of these — ^the one that swept over her 
at sight of the wheat and lilies on the parsonage door — 
manifested itself in a sudden quiver of what would have 
been a double chin had it not been for the vigorous hun- 
dred strokes waged upon it three times a day by the inde- 
fatigable Olympia. This trembling of the under-chin was 
followed by a deep flush that descended swiftly from the 
roots of her hair out of sight below the neckline of her 
dress, accompanied by a hissing suction of the lips, which 
she finally brought under control by catching the left corner 
of her mouth between very strong white teeth. On rare 
occasions of absolutely uncontrollable emotion, as now, 
this expression spent itself in explosive sobs. 


9 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


Aunt Olympia never surrendered long to emotion. One 
after another she drew the girls to her in a passionate em- 
brace and began divesting herself of her furs with a 
bustling show of energy. 

‘'Would you like to — see them — right away, Auntie, 
before you take off your wraps?” asked Helen tearfully. 
"They — are at the funeral parlor. We can drive right 
down — if you like.” 

"No!” Aunt Olympia spoke, as she moved, gustily. 
"No! I don't want to see them at all. Not at any time.” 
She sat down heavily. "I want to remember your mother 
as I saw her last. ... Nine years ago, it was. Your father 
was hurrying me off to catch my train, I remember, and 
she was spanking you, Limpy, for cutting paper dolls out 
of the Congressional Record I was saving to read on the 
train. It had an important speech of the Senator's — ” 

"I read quite a lot of it first,” said Limpy, quickly defen- 
sive. "It was very dull. I didn't see how anybody could 
possibly want to read it.” 

"You hadn't come to the Senator's speech,” said Aunt 
Olympia kindly. "It was farther along. ... No, I'd rather 
remember her like that.” 

The house, in the unaccountable, time-honored custom 
in periods of bereavement, had been taken out of the girls' 
hands by the officious kindliness of neighbors. These 
could be heard moving about, taking away Aunt Olympia's 
bag and wraps, rearranging chairs and dishes, rattling 
papers as they unwrapped the flowers and neighborly offer- 
ings of food that came to the door. Occasionally they 
entered the living room to show the flowers and gifts, 
to ask inane questions, to make suggestions, to serve 

10 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 

tea and wafers; and always to look the Senator’s wife 
over with inquisitive, friendly interest. They were intro- 
duced briefly by Helen to ‘‘our Aunt Olympia, Mrs. Slop- 
shire.” Aunt Olympia watched everything, everybody, 
with keen, appraising eyes whose pale blueness seemed 
curiously at odds with their keen attentiveness. 

“It’s a strange thing,” she remarked crisply, when Sister 
Alhard had bustled away with the tea tray, “how dumb 
kindness always is !” 

The girls looked decorously shocked. 

“Like this.” She indicated the room with a wave of her 
plump, well-kept hand. “Doing things for you. Doing 
everything. Letting you do nothing for yourselves. Best 
thing in the world for sadness, work is; the harder the 
better. Busy hands are the best antidote for sad feelings. 
But no! If you’re sad, you just sit down and be as sad as 
you can and let the neighbors wait on you and remind you 
how sad you are.” 

“They mean well,” said Helen apologetically. 

“Funny, isn’t it, how the best feelings are usually the 
dumbest acting?” said Aunt Olympia. 

The girls let that go. After all, she was their aunt ; she 
had just flown out from Washington — in January — ^to 
attend the funeral. Obviously, the less said, the better. 

Aunt Olympia couldn’t take her eyes off Limpy. Limpy 
had fairly taken her breath away. Aunt Olympia hadn’t 
a very clear idea of what she had expected Limpy to be; 
sometimes she had thought of her as the child being spanked 
for her mischief; and then, remembering the years, had 
reminded herself that Limpy was a young lady — ^about 
like Helen, perhaps. And here she found that Limpy was 

11 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


neither the one nor the other, but poised expectantly be- 
tween the two, with eyes turned alternately one way and 
the other. 

‘‘How old are you, Limpy?’’ she demanded suddenly. 

“Oh — ^about seventeen,’’ said Limpy. 

“Sixteen, by the family Bible,” corrected Adele. 

“Seventeen, minus a small fraction,” insisted Limpy. 

“Sixteen plus, and not a very big plus either,” argued 
Adele. 

“Oh, well, sixteen plus is seventeen minus, according 
to the mathematics I flunked last year. I prefer minuses.” 

Callers came to the door almost constantly. The women 
kissed the girls all round. One raised tentative lips to Aunt 
Olympia but was deterred by a sudden tightening of the 
full, flushed face. 

“Funny thing,” she remarked later in her resounding 
whisper, “how kissing seems to go neck and neck with 
bereavements. In my opinion, a kiss is not a bit more 
sympathetic than a hearty handshake and not half as 
hygienic.” 

Dr. Ainslie, “Brother Ainslie,” the girls called him, the 
district superintendent of their Conference, came, too. 
And as if by prearranged agreement, the neighbors trooped 
in from all over the house, from kitchen and dining room 
and from upstairs where they were interestedly unpacking 
Aunt Olympia’s bag and tidying up drawers and closets 
with that fond license bereavement so blessedly accords. 

Dr. Ainslie shook hands with everyone, murmuring 
words of sympathy couched in Biblical phraseology as far 
as possible, and then said, “Shall we pray?” 

All dropped to their knees beside their chairs. They had 

12 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


gone through many bereavements and knew what was 
expected of them. Helen glanced rather uneasily toward 
Aunt Olympia and was relieved to see her kneeling with 
the rest, though not without some trouble in her smart 
gray skirt which had not been fitted for prayer. 

Dr. Ainslie went into a detailed exposition of the tragic 
event and dwelt at ardent length on the rare virtues of 
the deceased parents and the pathetic estate of the three 
sweet girls until he had them all in tears. Aunt Olympia 
cried, too; she couldn’t help it. But when he reached the 
final and prolonged amen, she rose as hastily as she could 
in her tight skirt, violently red of face, and marched out 
of the room without a word. 

Please excuse me — I’ll go with Auntie,” said Helen, 
wiping her eyes. 

She followed Aunt Olympia silently up the stairs. The 
upper hallway, wide and old-fashioned, spotlessly clean — 
kindly neighbors had even freshly laundered the hall cur- 
tains — showed four doors, three standing invitingly open, 
one closed. Aunt Olympia took one look at the closed 
door and turned quickly away, dabbing furiously at her 
eyes. 

‘‘You are to have my room. Aunt Olympia, at the end 
of the hall,” Helen said gently. “I moved in here with 
Adele. . . . That’s Limpy’s room ; it’s so tiny there’s hardly 
room even for one.” 

There was no need for her to say they could not — ^not 
yet — ^bear to put anybody, not even Aunt Olympia, in that 
room behind the closed door. “Their room,” it had been, 
their father’s and mother’s. “Mother’s room,” they had 
always called it, though shared by both. 


13 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 

Aunt Olympia stalked down the hall to the door in- 
dicated. 

‘Tf you’re expecting any more preachers,” she began, 
so vigorously that Helen hastily closed the door on what 
was to follow, “Til stay here till they’ve come and gone. 
And if any pop in unexpectedly, kindly give me a wink 
and I’ll retire. In my opinion, we Christians can do our 
own praying. Humph! Why should he feel called on to 
recount the gory details to God ? Seems to me it’s almost 
an insult to God’s intelligence !” Helen cleared her throat, 
nervously. Aunt Olympia sniffed again. “Makes me think 
of the opening prayers at Republican campaign meetings,” 
she went on irritably. “They always start off telling God, 
point by point, how it is up to Him and the Republican 
party to come to the aid of the nation.” 

“Why don’t you rest a while before dinner, Auntie?” 
said Helen tactfully. “I know you must be tired from your 
trip and all these people dropping in are strangers to you. 
They do mean well, but — ” 

“Yes, ril rest till that preacher gets out of the house. 
He may think of something he left out. Next time, you 
give me the high sign. You’d think God was asleep up 
there, having to get what’s going on from reporters at this 
end!” She blew her nose with vicious vigor and dabbed 
at her eyes with much the same gesture she used on the 
under chin. 

“Do take a little rest. Auntie. I’ll let you know when 
dinner is ready. And if you want anything, just call me ; 
I’ll not be far away.” 

Aunt Olympia approved, with a gleam of genuine 
warmth in her pale blue eyes, of the table to which she 
14 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


was called that night. The food, which had been both 
prepared and contributed by generous, pitying friends, 
was lavish in quantity, as enticing in appearance as in taste. 
There were roast turkey and ham and little country sau- 
sages; there were home-canned vegetables and jams and 
pickles; there were three kinds of pie and four kinds of 
cake. 

“There’s nothing like variety to bolster up a sagging 
appetite,” she remarked approvingly. 

Two women, wives of important members, sat at table 
with them but the others, lesser perhaps in church office 
but just as high in friendly service, insisted on “waiting,” 
and “passing things.” 

“Do have another slice of Brother Walker’s turkey, 
Sister Slopshire.” “This ham is delicious — it’s Mrs. 
Graves’s ham. Do take a little slice, Helen.” “Take this 
wishbone, Limpy; you’re not eating anything.” “Have 
you tried Mrs. Oakley’s cake ? I always say she makes the 
best cake in our church.” 

The girls, with no appetite, tried desperately to please 
all by sampling every dish that represented such whole- 
hearted pity, but their eyes would wander — and start away 
as if frightened — to that chair at the head of the table 
where their father always had sat. No one sat there to- 
night. Even the chair had been removed and put back 
against the wall. A huge jar of Sister Smith’s baked beans 
stood where his plate once had been. 

Aunt Olympia’s appreciation of their efforts plainly 
pleased the ladies, though she had little taste for food that 
night. When they protested that she had eaten nothing, 
she said pleasantly, “I’ve eaten more than I would have 

15 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


thought possible an hour ago. And besides, the looks and 
the smell of that food do you good whether you eat it 
or not.” 

That was a nice speech for the Senator’s wife. 

Another stream of callers came in the evening — most 
of them bearing gifts, more cakes, more jellies, more pies. 

“They seem to think,” whispered Aunt Olympia, “that 
a bereavement gives you an appetite. But it’s a nice idea.” 

The lawyer came, too. Brother Wilton, one of their 
members, he had been. Now suddenly, in this tragedy, of 
his own offer, he had become their lawyer. He announced 
with satisfaction that “poor Bob” was well covered with 
insurance and the company’s agent had already been in to 
make an offer of a cash settlement of ten thousand dollars. 

“They offer ten? Then they’ll pay twenty,” said Aunt 
Olympia. 

“We can get twenty-five, easy, if we bring suit. We can 
sue for fifty and maybe get even thirty-five. It’s open 
and shut.” 

“We can’t sue,” said Helen faintly. “Poor Bob — ^was 
one of our own members. We couldn’t sue a member. 
We’d rather settle — for anything.” 

“They’ll have to come through with the price of your 
car,” said the lawyer, speaking in the lingo of the law in- 
stead of the church. “Your father was insured for that 
and your company will make them pay through the nose.” 

“Father had two thousand life insurance besides,” said 
Helen. “They’ve already sent a check for that.” 

“Did your mother have any insurance?” asked Aunt 
Olympia. 

“Mother? Oh, no, not Mother !” 

16 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


“Funny thing,” mused Aunt Olympia. “Preachers' 
wives always wear out first — and no wonder — after the 
life their husbands and the churches lead them. The wives 
die ! And look at all the superannuateds hobbling around 
to the century mark. But I never in my life heard of a 
preacher's wife being insured.'' 

On the day of the funeral Aunt Olympia was strangely 
quiet. Her voice, when she did speak, was soft, almost 
tremulous. Her oddly keen, pale blue eyes were gentle. 
Though she watched everything that went on about her, 
she made no comment. She objected to nothing. She 
broadcast no scathing whispers. For the most part, she 
watched the girls, all of them together and each of them 
separately, Limpy in particular. She noticed their manner- 
isms, their movements; not even the intonation of their 
voices escaped her. She scrutinized their clothes and the 
way they wore them. She took particular account of the 
cordial and sisterly understanding between them and did 
not overlook the very apparent affection shown them by 
everyone who came to their door, whether on errand of 
business or sympathy. 

It was not until the undertaker came to rehearse the last 
plans for the funeral that her air of gentle consideration 
left her. Then, as she heard the detailed arrangements, a 
striking change registered on her mobile face. The pale 
eyes narrowed to resentful slits ; the soft lips tightened to 
wrinkled hardness ; her chin went up, drawing the under- 
fullness to the vanishing point. 

“Do I understand you to say,'' she demanded, “that these 
poor children are supposed to sit there in that front pew and 
wait and watch and — suffer — ^until all those sightseers in 

17 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


the church have walked by and — ^viewed the remains?’' 

The undertaker — Brother Allan, it was — turned vaguely 
to Helen. 

^Tt’s the usual custom,” he said apologetically. 

*Tt’s as heathenish and cruel as most of our usual cus- 
toms,” said the Senator’s wife. “I won’t permit it. Switch 
things around the other way. Let the audience look as they 
come in before they take their seats and get it over with. 
Then when you’re ready to begin, you give us our cue and 
we’ll come in.” 

“It’s the usual cust — er, it’s the general practice,” he 
amended hastily, “for the chief mourners — ^to take the 
last look.” 

“Do you girls want to walk by — in public — ^and parade 
your feelings before the audience?” demanded Aunt 
Olympia. 

“We do not want them, the people, I mean, to feel — not 
satisfied. They are our friends, you know. Auntie, and 
they were their friends. They loved them both so much. 
I want them to — ^be satisfied.” 

“Now, I’ll tell you how to fix it,” said Aunt Olympia 
briskly. “You have ever3rthing ready. As people come in, 
have the ushers indicate they are to pass down — and look. 
Then — if the girls want to, though in their condition they 
don’t know what they want and will wish they hadn’t if 
they do — let them walk up alone, after the service, and 
then — close the casket, quickly, and — go.” 

Brother Allan was a little distressed about it. It was 
decidedly outside the pale of custom, and funerals, of all 
things in the world, should be according to custom. Still, 
she was a senator's wife ; and he yielded. 

18 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


The church was packed for the funeral. It was their 
father's own church, the biggest church in town, and both 
the minister and his wife had been warmly loved. The 
suddenness, the tragic shockingness of the manner of their 
passing, the double bereavement, even the double casket 
and the double interment — first in the history of the town — 
attracted the morbid interest even of strangers. The dis- 
trict superintendent conducted the service. They would 
have had the Bishop, but he was away with his secretary, 
making a tour of the Holy Land at the expense of the 
church, gathering material for a report on the state of the 
Armenians. Their own church choir sang. 

Even in their sadness, the girls, in somber black, felt 
satisfaction that Aunt Olympia, the Senator’s wife, was 
with them, she also in respectable but more expensive black. 
As they passed down the aisle they could hear among the 
stifled sobs of their friends, among the tender murmurs, 
‘'those poor dear children” . . . “sweet girls” . . . “the 
darlings,” other words that gave them a sad pleasure : “the 
Senator’s wife” . . . “their aunt” . . . “flew out from 
Washington.” 

Aunt Olympia displayed a proper, customary sorrow 
during the services, frequently patting her eyes under her 
veil with a very fine, perfumed handkerchief. When Limpy 
shivered suddenly and was seized with a spasm of nervous 
trembling. Aunt Olympia put her arm around her and 
stroked the slim, black-clad knee with tender S3mipathy 
until the tremor had passed. 

The parsonage was in quiet readiness for their sad re- 
turn. Sister Alhard and Mrs. Cox had remained away 
from the funeral in order to attend to those final domestic 

19 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


rites. The extra chairs, borrowed from neighboring houses 
for the influx of visitors, had been returned to their own- 
ers. Pieces of furniture had been restored to their original 
position in the room. A cheerful fire had been set blazing 
in the grate and a bowl of roses brightened the low table 
in the living room. Food had been prepared, and the table 
laid for their evening meal. 

Sister Alhard received them gently, helped them remove 
their wraps and then announced that she and Mrs. Cox 
would run along home now to look after their own little 
flocks ; if they wanted anything, she said heartily, just give 
her a ring and she would be right over. 

Aunt Olympia and the three girls, left alone together, 
were a little disconsolate. The girls tried to live up to their 
parsonage training for Aunt Olympia’s sake and she tried 
to be bright and cheery for theirs, but their efforts were not 
very successful. At least on this night they were not 
obliged to force food between unwilling lips by way of 
thanks to loving donors. 

When they had finished their dinner and sat, distraught 
and ill at ease, the four of them, before the fire Helen had 
freshly stirred to life. Aunt Olympia said with some ab- 
ruptness : 

^‘How about the future ? Have you got any ideas — made 
any plans — worked anything out in your minds about what 
you want to do — from this on?” Only a slight quiver of 
the curving under-chin betrayed her passionate interest in 
their answer. 

''There’s only one thing we can do,” said Helen bravely. 
"The insurance will carry us nicely until the girls have 
finished school. Father wouldn’t let me teach this year, 

20 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


though I finished college last year and have my state license, 
because he thought I should get a good rest after my opera- 
tion for appendicitis. But I get a good deal of substitute 
work here in town and next year Fll take a school of my 
own and settle down to business. Adele will finish college, 
of course. Limpy will finish high school next month — ” 

* 'Whoever heard of finishing school in the middle of the 
winter ?” said Aunt 01)mipia. "A poor way to run a school, 
in my opinion.’’ 

"Don’t blame the school,” said Adele, smiling. "Rather 
blame young seventeen-year-old minuses, who simply will 
not study math and flunk it consistently, year after year.” 

"Don’t you think it is very incongruous. Auntie,” said 
Limpy, in her own defense, "that the highest in 1. Q.’s 
should be the lowest in geometry and algebra ? You can’t 
help thinking there’s something wrong either with the 
school or the teacher.” 

"There just couldn’t be an)^hing wrong with the pupil,” 
said Adele. 

"Well, naturally not ! Look at my I. Q. !” 

"Anyhow, Limpy finishes high school next month,” said 
Helen. "Then, college. That was the way we had planned, 
and we’ll just carry on. Maybe we can get a small house 
somewhere or a floor of housekeeping rooms and use our 
own furniture. Even if I take a school away from here 
next year, Adele and Limpy can go right ahead and I will 
come home week ends. . . . We’ll have to give up the par- 
sonage right away, of course.” 

Aunt Olympia drew a full breath and opened her lips. 
But for once in her life, someone spoke ahead of her. It 
was Adele. 


21 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


‘‘Helen/’ she said, “I don’t want to go on through col- 
lege. I don’t want to teach school. And we ought not to 
use up that insurance money as we go along. We ought 
to keep it for — for emergencies. Last week, it never oc- 
curred to any of us that — sudden — ^and terrible things 
could happen to us, upset our plans. Now, we know they 
can happen. We must save as much of that money as we 
can for — just such unexpected crises. I want to take a 
business course, Helen. I always did want to. It won’t 
cost much either, and won’t take long. I’d so much rather 
go into business than teach school.” 

Aunt Olympia started to speak and then, wisely, thought 
better of it. This was the girls’ business, not hers. She 
closed her lips so tightly that only a pale blue line remained 
of their fullness. 

“Father was opposed to that, Adele,” Helen reminded 
her. “You know he always felt it was too — ^temptations — 
for pretty girls to be ensconced in private offices with rich 
men.” Tears came to her eyes at her quotation of her 
father’s old word of warning, but she blinked them away 
determinedly. 

“I can be secretary for a bishop, perhaps, like Goldie 
Burns, and travel around the world at the expense of the 
church. There’s nothing temptations about bishops.” 

“I don’t want to go to college, either,” said Limpy sud- 
denly. “You know Father always admitted he was going 
to have trouble with me. You can see I couldn’t very well 
teach school when I can’t even graduate on time. I want 
to take my share of the insurance money and go to a big 
city and take some kind of an exciting course in something 
and—” 

22 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


‘What kind of an exciting course?” asked Aunt 
Olympia, who had hung on Limpy^s every word. 

‘T don’t know exactly,” admitted Limpy. “But the 
more exciting the better. Stage setting, or dress designing, 
or acting, or play writing — ” 

“Have you any talent for any of those things?” de- 
manded Aunt Olympia. 

“I don’t think so,” said Limpy honestly. “But everyone 
says they are very exciting and I may discover some latent 
talent not yet suspected, even by me. Anyhow, I won’t go 
to college and I won’t teach school and — ” 

“You won’t get a share of the insurance till you’re 
eighteen, Limpy,” Helen said uneasily. “Brother Wilton 
will have charge of that, you know.” 

“Well, if he won’t give me the money for an exciting 
course in something, Fll take a business course,” persisted 
Limpy. “I’m not pretty enough to be temptatious, as Adele 
is. It was her looks that Father thought would be danger- 
ous. I’ll bet you I could spend ten years right in the very 
lap of a — a — a United States President without being in 
a minute’s worth of danger.” 

“You must go to college, Limpy,” said Helen. “And 
Adele must finish and then decide what she wants. She 
will be older then and will know better what she really 
wants.” 

“Girls,” began Aunt Olympia, in a voice that had gone 
up two tones in pitch. In her emotional condition she 
alternately jabbed her wet eyes with her fingers and then 
fell, from habit, to a furiipus massage of her under-chin, 
quite unaware that she did either. “Girls, you know your 
mother and I were sisters. We were closer than sisters. 

23 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


We were almost like a couple of sections of one soul. When 
we were young, that is. We haven’t seen much of each 
other the last twenty years, but we never changed. Now — 
you know, girls, I have things pretty nice with the Senator. 
And Washington’s a lovely town, full of buildings, and — 
and saddle paths and — golf courses — a very nice town ! . . . 
We haven’t any children of our own. And no fault of ours, 
either, though it’s thrown up to us plenty during cam- 
paigns that the best we have done for posterity is a couple 
of pedigreed pups. . . . And nothing we can do about it, 
either. You can’t come out even in a mud-slinging cam- 
paign and show a doctor’s certificate for such private 
details. But it’s always been a great grief to the Senator 
and me, and if you girls would come and make us a nice 
long visit and — and live with us a while — you might get 
to like it, in time. Limpy could go to a girls’ school right 
there and live at home. They’ve got good schools in Wash- 
ington and it isn’t as if we couldn’t afford it. Helen could 
get rested up after her operation as her father wished, and 
you could all take time to get over this terrible shock and — 
get your feet on the ground again. Washington itself is 
an education. Everybody says Washington is a liberal edu- 
cation. Too damn liberal some say, but an education any- 
how. Think what an experience it would be for you three 
young things to live for a while in the town where great 
national figures like Andrew Jackson, Grover Cleveland 
and Woodrow Wilson lived, and did, and died for their 
country, and sent their voices ringing down the corridor 
of time !” 

The girls, who had gazed wide-eyed and speechless at 
this surprising proposal, smiled faintly at that. 

24 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


“Washington — ^mmmmm, Washington/' said Limpy, 
with an impish sparkle that brought sudden hot tears to 
the eyes of both her sisters. It was Limpy’s own impish 
sparkle ; she had been born with it ; but the girls had seen 
not a pale glimmer of it since this terrible tragedy had hap- 
pened to them. They had never really expected to see it 
again. Yet here it was — a little feeble, a little wan and 
tearful, but Limpy’s sparkle, or the shadow of it. 

“Washington,” she mused. “Let’s see now! Seems to 
me I’ve heard of another couple of guys that used to hang 
out around there. George Washington, didn’t he have 
something to do with it? Was it named for him or the 
other ’way round ? And Lincoln I Or is he just a hand- 
some memorial and the name of an address ?” 

“To be sure 1” agreed Aunt Olympia, agreeably. “You’re 
perfectly right! George Washington and Abraham Lin- 
coln ! Just think what an experience, what an education, 
what a — ^what a — a preparation for the future it would be 
for you girls ! And what a pleasure to the poor dear Sena- 
tor and me !” 

“But, Aunt Olympia,” Helen reminded her gently, “you 
know we are — ^we are not — ^well, we are not really Demo- 
crats !” 

“Who is?” demanded Aunt Olympia triumphantly. 
“And for that matter, who’s really a Republican any more ? 
Except maybe Hoover — and even he started out the other 
way ’round, didn’t he ?” 

“But, Aunt Olympia, what would the Senator think, 
having you plunk three large-sized orphan nieces down on 
him like that ?” 

“He’d love it ! Who wouldn’t ?” she countered quickly. 

25 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


‘‘Especially pretty ones ! — I see Adele is still the best-look- 
ing. But that’s all right. You’re all good-looking enough, 
and beauty isn’t everything; though I sometimes think,” 
she added honestly, “that in most cases it seems to be 
plenty ! . . . You know, girls,” she added pathetically, swab- 
bing absent-mindedly at her chin, “I adored your mother. 
And she loved me ! And I’d like — and I think she’d like — 
to have her children with me as my very own for a while. 
She knows how I felt about those children I didn’t have 
and I know she’d like to lend me hers. And you never can 
tell what might come of it. Everybody goes to Washington 
some time or another. You can meet anybody there : rich 
men, poor men, diplomats, congressmen — ^the place is lousy 
with congressmen, both incumbent and ex. No one knows 
what great, good things might come of your being there 
with me. What do you think of it?” she asked eagerly. 

“We are so surprised we can’t think at all,” said Helen. 
“But we do think it is wonderful of you to ask us and it 
would certainly be a marvelous opportunity for Adele 
and Limpy. It is different with me, of course. I am 
quite strong enough to go to work and I must. But the 
girls—” 

Adele and Limpy voiced explosive, simultaneous protest. 

“Nothing stirring!” 

“Father said you must rest a year !” 

“And you needn’t try to shuffle us off somewhere to get 
rid of us ! We’re a family, and we’re going to stick it out 
together.” 

“You can’t stick it out together forever,” interposed 
Aunt Olympia. “When you go to work you’ll be separated. 
When you marry, you’ll be separated.” 

26 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


“We could pay our expenses all right with the insurance 
money,” mused Helen thoughtfully. 

“You pay nothing with that insurance money ! You save 
that insurance money for emergencies, as Adele says. If 
you come with me, you come as my own children, and — ^the 
Senator pays the bills. And I will say for the Senator, 
he's got money and he’s willing to spend it. He’s no be- 
grudger. . . . Except maybe on taxes. . . . Well, is it all 
settled then?” 

“Not quite settled,” said Helen, smiling. “We haven’t 
decided; there are so many things to consider. And you 
haven’t asked the Senator.” 

“Asked the Senator !” ejaculated Aunt Olympia. “Asked 
the Senator what ? Whoever asks the Senator about any- 
thing until it is settled ?” 

“We do !” said Helen firmly. “We sha’n’t even think 
about it until we find out how he feels about it.” 

“And we don’t want him to — just stand it,” added Adele 
swiftly. “We want him to be — well, almost pleased 
about it.” 

“Or at least not exactly displeased,” corroborated Limpy. 

“You talk to him about it when you go home,” said 
Helen, “and let us know how he feels.” 

“When I go home ! But you’re going with me !” 

Helen shook her head. “Not unless you stay till the close 
of the semester. Limpy’s got to finish high school. That 
will give the Senator plenty of time to decide how he feels 
about the idea.” 

Aunt Olympia gave a derisive snort. “It takes him no 
time at all for me to make up my mind,” she said. “I’ll call 
him up right now and settle it.” 


27 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


‘‘Call him upr 

“In Washington?’’ 

“It’ll cost a young fortune to call up Washington !” 

“I’ll reverse the charge,” added Aunt Olympia. 

“I didn’t mean that,” said Helen, flushing. “I just mean 
there’s no special hurry about it.” 

“Yes there is a hurry ! I won’t be able to sleep any more 
till it’s settled. And I have to rush along back and keep an 
eye on those bills of his. But anyhow, I’m always in a 
hurry when I’ve decided anything.” 

She started for the telephone. 

“Please don’t reverse the charge,” said Helen. 

“I have to. I always reverse the charge. If I don’t he’ll 
think I’m sick and start a long argument about castor oil.” 

Aunt Olympia got the Senator on a long-distance call to 
Washington. He had been in bed and asleep but he an- 
swered cheerfully enough. 

“You girls come here,” whispered Aunt 01)mipia. “You 
listen for yourselves.” She was very sure of the Senator. 

“Hello, Del,” she boomed heartily into the transmitter. 
“Got you out of bed, eh?” 

“I wasn’t quite asleep,” he assured her politely. 

“Del, I want to ask your advice about something.” The 
Senator coughed faintly over the telephone. He knew what 
that meant. Ol3mipia had made up her mind. She never 
asked his advice until she had reached a conclusion. 

“Del, what do you think of my bringing these poor dear 
little children back to Washington to live with us a 
while ?” 

The Senator cleared his throat. “Wait till I wipe my 
glasses,” he said. 

28 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 

“He’s so tickled he’s crying,” she whispered loudly to 
the girls. “That’s the way he cries — ^he wipes his glasses.” 

“Olympia,” the Senator said, and he spoke brokenly, for 
he was deeply moved, “that’s the best idea you ever had in 
your life. Of course, our home is their home. Of course 
they are our children from this on. Who has a better right 
to them than we have ? I’ll get things ready for them right 
away. I’ll call Hilda. After all, what is a home without 
children ?” 

Aunt Olympia began to cry, sniffily, from pure joy. 

“You’re wrong!” she boomed, when she could control 
her voice. “It’s a mother 1” 

“What’s that?” 

“A mother 1” she repeated. “A mother 1” 

“Who’s a mother?” 

“Your quotation is wrong,” she said exasperatedly, be- 
tween blowings of a very red nose and dabbing at her eyes 
with the receiver. “It’s ‘What is home without a mother ?’ 
Not ‘children.’ ” 

“Well, that’s all right. We’ll be a mother to them. You 
bring them right along, Ollie. I’ll go down first thing in 
the morning and get them some toys and things, to make 
them feel at home.” 

“Get them some what ?” 

“Some toys. Some playthings. Toys !” 

“Listen, you silly dunce,” she roared, scarlet with pleas- 
ure. “They’re not babies 1 They’re young ladies. They’re 
twenty-one years old, and nineteen and six — seventeen 
minus something or other,” she corrected herself hastily, 
to please the listening Limpy. “They’re not infants 1 Don’t 
order cradles for them.” 


29 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


‘‘Children, that’s all they are ! They’ve got to be amused. 
I’ll get them some tennis rackets and bicycles — ” 

“Since when, you idiot, do young ladies play tennis and 
ride bicycles in the dead of winter?” 

“That’s so, too,” he admitted feebly. Then he bright- 
ened. “Skates! That’s what! I’ll get them skates. Are 
they too big for sleds ?” 

“Del, you get nothing till I get home. You get nothing 
and you do nothing. You leave this to me. They just 
wanted me to find out if you want them ! They don’t want 
to impose on you !” 

“Want them!” he ejaculated. “Impose on me? Why, 
the very idea! Let me speak to them,” he said, in his 
sternest senatorial voice. 

“Helen, here, Helen,” said Aunt Olympia triumphantly. 
“You can see he wants you ! He wants to speak to you. . . . 
Del, are you there, Del? This is Helen, she’s the oldest. 
This is Helen !” 

“H-hello, Senator,” said Helen faintly. 

The Senator coughed slightly. “My dear child,” he 
began, and then added, “Wait till I wipe my glasses.” 

“What’s that he said?” whispered Aunt Olympia anx- 
iously. 

“He said wait till he wipes his glasses.” 

“He’s shedding tears of joy,” said Aunt Olympia 
blandly. “That’s the way he sheds tears. Just fogs up his 
glasses.” 

“Helen, my dear child, are you there?” 

“Yes, Senator.” 

“Helen, my child — ^my children, for I am speaking to 
you all. You don’t know how happy your aunt and I are 
30 


I 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 

to have you come and live with us. As Olympia says, what 
is a mother without children — ^without a home, I mean. I 
guess I’m a little mixed up,” he admitted, with an apologetic 
cackle of laughter that had a break of emotion in it. ‘‘You 
come right along. Our home is your home. And if you 
want to play tennis in the dead of winter. I’ll get the snow 
shoveled off the courts for you. And if you want to ride 
bicycles, we’ll have coasters put on ’em. You come right 
along. I’m telling Hilda to make up the beds and — ” 

“We really haven’t decided yet,” said Helen nervously. 
“We have to think it over. But it’s wonderful of you to 
ask us.” 

“You let your Aunt Olympia do the deciding. I always 
let her do mine, and she does a good job of it. . Now you 
give the other children a great big kiss from their old uncle 
and tell them to hurry along home and use those toys I’m 
going to order first thing in the morning. What train 
are you taking ?” 

Helen turned to her aunt. “He wants to know what train 
you’re taking ?” 

“Give me the receiver.” Olympia charged back into the 
conversation, “We don’t know what train we’re taking. 
The girls can’t come for a couple of weeks — ” 

“Why not?” he demanded testily. “Why put off till 
next week what should have been done long ago ?” 

“Because Limpy flunked her math — ” 

“She what?” 

“She flunked her math. Her math! Her math!” 

“Ollie, have you had your teeth pulled? You’re lisping. 
It sounds as if you’re saying math.” 

“I am saying math, you silly dunce, and I haven’t had 

31 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


my teeth pulled and I'm not lisping. Never mind. . . . He 
never could get math either/' she whispered to Limpy. 
“You take after him. . . . I'll send you a telegram, Del." 
And she hung up the receiver with a triumphant air. “You 
can see he wants you." 

“He sounded very nice," said Helen. 

“Yes, he's nice. As senators go, I think he's particularly 
nice. If he could just break himself of that silly habit of 
coughing instead of making a remark, and wiping his 
glasses instead of bursting right out into manly tears, it 
would be an improvement. But he's nice. You'll like the 
Senator." 

“I — I really don't know what to say. Aunt Olympia," 
said Helen distractedly. “It is so — important — " 

“Of course it's important. Don't say anything. Just 
think it over and then come, that's all. Think of dear little 
Limpy here ! Think of Adele. Think of George Washing- 
ton and Abraham Lincoln. This may be your last chance 
to see the real inside goings-on in Washington, for if what 
we hear from home is true, the Senator is due for a fade- 
out this fall and this will be our last year in Washington." 

And then, suddenly, before their eyes, an amazing trans- 
formation took place. From being tearful, fond and per- 
suasive, Aunt Olympia became rigid and tense. Bones, or 
very hard muscles, appeared as if by magic under her 
ample curves. Her hands clenched and her dimples dis- 
appeared into knotty knuckles. The left corner of her 
mouth tightened and curled upward. The lid of her left 
eye went down until the lashes touched her cheek. 

The girls, amazed, almost frightened, stared in speech- 
less wonder for a moment. Then Helen found voice. 

32 


I 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 

“You must be very tired, Auntie. Let's go to bed. We 
can talk it over tomorrow." 

“Yes, let's go to bed," said Aunt Olympia. Even her 
voice had changed. It had dropped from a persuasive, emo- 
tional tremolo to guarded, guttural depth. “Yes, we'll talk 
it over tomorrow." 

Later the girls came to know and to fear — ^but excit- 
ingly — ^this look of Aunt Olympia's. It signified that she 
had suddenly turned Machiavellian, had begun to play 
politics. Even the Senator quailed before that look. 


33 


Chapter II 


On the next morning, the girls were shocked to see that 
Aunt Olympia retained the tense rigidity that had come 
upon her so suddenly the night before. She was quiet all 
morning. Not until they sat at luncheon did her expression 
change. Slowly then her features relaxed. The left corner 
of her mouth went down, her left eyelid went up to normal. 
Her pale blue eyes became childish, bland and slightly 
vacuous. An air of exaggerated casualness descended upon 
her like a mantle. If the girls had known her better, they 
would have realized that Aunt Olympia was now in her 
most dangerous mood. There was something she wanted 
to find out. 

“Since when,*’ she inquired presently, in a voice of 
studied nonchalance, “have grocery boys in Iowa begun 
making deliveries in neckties and gloves ?” 

For all the mild unconcern in her eyes, she did not over- 
look that a sudden electric wave, almost of warning, flashed 
briefly among the girls. 

It was Limpy who answered. 

Later, when Aunt Olympia knew the girls better, she 
would have known at once that because it was Limpy who 
answered, Limpy was least involved in the query. It was 
an act of unstudied teamwork, a defense mechanism, en- 
tirely sisterly and natural, unmentioned even between 
themselves, that the girls had developed for their mutual 
good. 

34 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


Sometimes their father had inquired, half irritably, at 
breakfast, “What was all that racket going on last night 
around two o’clock? Got me so wide awake I never did 
get to sleep again.” 

Then Adele spoke swiftly. “Mother, I do think it is 
outrageous the way the Baileys keep their radio going all 
hours of the night. I suppose we can’t complain though, 
since they are our own members.” 

Limpy followed promptly. “I am afraid I helped the 
racket along last night. I couldn’t sleep either and went 
down cellar for some apples. I don’t know what time it 
was, but a door blew shut on me and naturally there was a 
bit of noise.” 

“I am not entirely innocent myself,” Helen finally vouch- 
safed. “Brick and I got into an argument and you know 
how arguments run on. I had no idea it was so late. And 
I do think the deacons might come through with a few 
nails for those squeaky stairs. I’m sorry if I wakened 
you.” 

But by the time the blame was traced squarely to Helen, 
the edge of their father’s irritation had worn off. 

Or their mother had said, “Girls, which of you broke the 
handle off that lovely crystal pitcher the Aid gave me ?” 

“Oh, Mother!” Helen cried regretfully. “I knew we 
should not put that pitcher in the icebox I I’ve said a dozen 
times it would get broken if we kept on.” 

“I might have cracked it the other day,” admitted Adele. 
“I gave it a wallop on the faucet — purely accidental. But 
I didn’t see any crack and I looked carefully.” 

“Maybe that was the little crash I heard when I shoved 
the milk bottle in this morning,” Limpy added. “I heard 

35 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


something give a sort of a sound but I never thought of the 
crystal pitcher.” 

So now, when Aunt Olympia inquired with such com- 
plete affectation of disinterest about the ddivery of gro- 
ceries, or, more particularly, of the one who made the de- 
livery, Limpy’s prompt reply proved her personal innocence. 

“Oh, you mean Brick 1 He isn’t the delivery boy 1 He 
owns the store !” 

“It’s the best store in town, too,” added Adele. 

“Iowa must be going to the dogs,” remarked Aunt 
Olympia, blandly, “when the owners of the best stores 
deliver their own groceries. Can’t they afford a truck ?” 

“Oh, they have two trucks,” said Limpy hastily. “Brick 
doesn’t really make the deliveries. He just leaves things 
here as a favor on his way home to luncheon. He lives 
out this way.” 

“They have a lovely house,” said Helen belatedly. “They 
hired a florist landscaper to lay out their grounds.” 

“There’s still money in groceries, darling,” concluded 
Limpy, “even if — even if — ” She remembered her aunt’s 
state of politics. “Well, I don’t suppose anybody would call 
a grocer an economic royalist.” 

“How old are you, Limpy ?” asked Aunt 01)mipia again, 
with more pronounced casualness. 

“Seventeen,” came promptly. 

“Sixteen and a half, says the Bible,” corrected Adele. 

“Why, Auntie?” 

“Oh, I just wondered !” 

That evening, when she again brought up the subject of 
their going with her to Washington, there was nothing 
nonchalant, nothing casual, about her. She was taut, in 
36 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


the throes of politics. She listened intently, sitting motion- 
less, with unchanging expression, to Helen's halfhearted 
recital of the difficulties in their way. In the first place, they 
could not make any move at all until Limpy had finished 
this last term of high school. 

‘That's soon enough. You can come then," said Aunt 
Olympia agreeably. 

Then there was the matter of their furniture, all their 
household goods. Some of it was badly worn and of no 
value; the secondhand store could have that. But there 
were other things that the girls loved and prized: things 
they would like to keep for the future and divide among 
them. If they took a set of light-housekeeping rooms, they 
could use these for furnishing. 

“Mrs. Cox says we can store everything in her attic and 
it won't cost us a cent. ... If we want to," contributed 
Adele. 

In the end, it simmered down to two facts : that while 
Helen was obliged honestly to admit it was a marvelous 
opportunity for Adele and Limpy, who were young and 
whose lives were still unplanned, her own future lay right 
there in Iowa where she already had her teacher's certifi- 
cate ; and that her sisters would not go east without her. 

“But there's a future beyond teaching school," said 
Aunt Olympia. “There's the real future — marriage : every 
woman's real career. What eligible men have you in a one- 
horse town like this? You girls have the looks and the 
style and the personality to marry anybody — anybody at 
all ; diplomats, millionaires, senators — " 

“Cabinet members ?" questioned Limpy interestedly. 

“Unfortunately, there are no vacancies right now. But 

37 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


we’ll bear it in mind for the future. You can marry any- 
body — anybody at all.” 

Again she noted the faint flash, half-questioning, half- 
warning, that glinted from girl to girl. 

“But you can’t marry anybody,” continued Aunt 
Olympia, “without meeting him first. You’ve got to have 
contacts. There are no contacts here. Washington is the 
place for contacts.” 

“Even though I dread separation from the girls,” said 
Helen, “I see the advantages for them and — I wish — I 
even urge them to go without me.” 

“That’s out,” said Limpy. 

“Together we stay or together we go,” added Adele. 

“To tell you the truth, girls,” Aunt Olympia began 
guardedly, “while I love you devotedly and want you to 
come with me for yourselves alone, still — ^to tell the truth — 
I really need you. It may be that you three girls, young, 
innocent, pretty, can be the Senator’s salvation. The Sen- 
ator’s salvation and my salvation.” 

The girls stared at her in startled silence. 

“The salvation of both of us,” she repeated firmly. 

“Do you mean,” gasped Limpy, “that — ^you are on the 
verge of a divorce — ^and want us to help you — ^win him 
back?” 

Aunt Olympia broke into hearty laughter. “Lord, no ! 
It’s not domestically I need you. I can handle the Senator. 
It is politically you can be of help.” 

“Politically!” 

“We don’t know a thing about politics !” 

“We’re not even Democrats !” 

38 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


^T’m the only one old enough to vote anyhow, and it will 
be my first, said Helen. 

‘Tt’s not your votes we need. It’s your vote-getting 
quality, your pull.” Aunt Olympia’s left lid reduced her 
eye to a mere squint. “The Senator comes up again this 
fall and he’s got a tough fight on his hands.” She warmed 
to her subject. “And do you know who’s doing the Senator 
all this dirt? It’s a man the Senator made! He simply 
made him 1 He was nothing but a small-town preacher, and 
a poor one at that, until the Senator persuaded him to go 
into politics !” 

“I don’t seem to get it,” admitted Helen. “Perhaps I’m 
not very political. If the Senator made him and they’re in 
the same party — ” 

“It’s quite complicated,” explained Aunt Olympia kindly. 
“The Senator made him all right. But they’re not in the 
same party. There was a split in our party and the Gover- 
nor was trying to get control and naturally the Senator 
couldn’t support him. So he made a deal with the Repub- 
licans and promised to support Brother Wilkie for gov- 
ernor if they would run him, and they did and he was 
elected. The ingrate 1 The louse 1 The Senator planned his 
entire campaign for him. He even put up the money — ^most 
of it himself and got his friends to contribute the rest. He 
taught him all the tricks. He lent him our own publicity 
man, the best campaign man that ever lived. And what 
happened ?” 

“What did ?” asked the girls, breathlessly, in one voice. 

“Well, two years ago, when the Senator had pledged 
himself to somebody else and asked Brother Wilkie — the 

39 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


Governor, that is — ^to withdraw like a gentleman, he 
wouldn’t do it. He ran again. He used all the tricks the 
Senator had taught him — ^and our publicity man — ^and 
won 1” 

‘‘But if he’s governor, that doesn’t interfere with the 
Senator, does it ?” 

“Ah, but now the bug’s really got him ! He wants to be 
senator. He aims to be president someday, we all know 
that. He doesn’t even deny it. He’s come out against the 
Senator and is putting up the fight of his life to beat us 
at our own game.” 

“But we couldn’t do a thing in the world about that,” 
said Helen. “We don’t know the first thing about politics. 
We’re just three green little corn-fed minister’s daughters 
from good old Iowa.” 

“Congress,” said Aunt Olympia, bitterly, “is all eaten 
up with ministers. And as for ministers’ children, Wash- 
ington is lousy with them. I’m expecting a constitutional 
amendment any day now that only ministers and their 
offspring are eligible to run for Congress.” 

“But what could we do about it. Auntie? Not even I 
could vote in your state !” 

“You don’t have to vote. Your looks will turn the trick ; 
your looks and your innocence and — and your general 
pathos. Brother Wilkie, the Governor, that is, the snake- 
in-the-grass, has seven of the most unspeakable little brats 
that ever lived. He only had five when the Senator first 
ran him, but when he saw what an asset they were in a 
campaign he got busy right away and had two more. Some 
of his friends say he was all set for triplets the last time, 
but the Lord let him down on it. He campaigns with them. 
40 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


The Senator put him up to it in the first place but he’s 
running it into the ground. He takes the whole kit and 
boodle of them right along with him and has them sit on 
the platform and eat peanuts and even the youngest one — 
the ugliest little worm I ever saw in my life — ^has been 
taught to wave his lollypop and shout, ‘Vote for Papa! 
Vote for Papa I’ ” 

The girls tried considerately but unsuccessfully to repress 
their laughter. 

“Oh, I admit it’s funny,” Aunt Olympia acknowledged 
grudgingly. “It was good and funny until he began work- 
ing it against the Senator. And that wasn’t enough 1 You 
know what he did next? Listen to this now. This just 
shows you what the church stands for — er — ^when it goes 
into politics. Not satisfied with the seven brats, last cam- 
paign he dug up some old hag from someplace, calls her 
his great-aunt, a wrinkled, gnarled, crippled old beldame 
who hobbles around on a cane and pretends she can’t hear 
without an ear trumpet. He takes her stumping with him, 
too, and she bangs on the back of the chair with her tin 
trumpet and shouts through it, when he makes a good 
point, ‘That’s my nevvy! Tell ’em, Nevvyl’ In my opin- 
ion, it’s a megaphone to shout through and no ear trumpet 
at all. And what’s more, I don’t believe she’s his aunt. I 
think he — or that devil, Len Hardesty — dug her up out 
of some graveyard or old ladies’ home, for she’s never 
around except during campaigns, and she certainly doesn’t 
look like him or any of the seven brats.” 

“Oh, I see what you’re getting at,” said Limpy brightly. 
“You want us to hobble around on canes and shout through 
tin trumpets and take the shine off the beldame.” 


41 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


‘‘Oh, no I don’t. Not by a long shot.” Aunt Olympia 
relaxed then and leaned back in her chair, regarding them 
with a smile of blissful contentment. “I just want you to 
be three dear sweet innocent little orphans — ^pretty ones ! — 
that the Senator and I have taken into our home to live 
with us.” Her eyes narrowed suddenly. “You’d better 
stick to mourning, I suppose, though in the main I’m 
against mourning. I don’t consider it religious. ... Yes, 
mourning, all right. But we’ll soften it. Queen Elizabeth 
did that to do her mourning in Paris, though, in my opin- 
ion, Paris is the last place in the world to go and do your 
mourning in.” 

“But that was an affair of state, wasn’t it?” 

“So’s this. Our state. And election year, to boot. . . . 
Let me see. Yes, we’ll make it black and white, and white 
and black.” 

“I wonder if I’m getting color-blind,” said Adele. “They 
sound just alike to me.” 

“Not a bit of it. It’ll be mostly black with touches of 
white for Helen, because she’s the oldest ; and mostly white 
with touches of black for Limpy, because she’s no more 
than a child. And it’ll be about half and half for you, 
Adele, because black and white is very becoming and will 
set off your good looks.” 

“Then all we have to do is wear black and white and 
white and black and sit on the platform and wave lolly- 
pops ?” asked Limpy, quite fascinated at the prospect. 

“And especially, you must be very, very affectionate to- 
ward the Senator,” said Aunt Olympia thoughtfully, 
already mapping the campaign. 

“But — ^what will the Senator think?” ejaculated Helen, 

42 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


appalled at the idea of showing affection toward a senato- 
rial uncle by marriage she had never even seen. 

Aunt Olympia smiled disarmingly. “He’ll probably 
think times have improved no end,” she said. “And you 
must not call him Senator. Never call him Senator. It’s so 
stiff, so formal.” 

“It will seem strange tcrcall him Uncle Alenqon,” mused 
Adele. 

“Not Alen^on,” said Olympia decidedly. “Never 
Alenqon. We’ve had trouble enough trying to live down 
that Alen^on. They try to make out we’re aristocrats be- 
cause of that name, and nobody will vote for an aristocrat 
these days.” 

“It is an odd name, isn’t it? Is it French?” 

“It’s hellish,” said Aunt Olympia frankly. “I think his 
mother was frightened by a piece of lace.” 

“How about just plain ‘Unc’ ?” suggested Limpy. 

“No. That’s not fond enough. It must be something 
very, very fond.” 

“What do you call him. Auntie?” 

“Oh, I call him Del. But that won’t do. It’s too flippant, 
in the first place, and it comes from Delaporte, his middle 
name, which, though not as bad as Alenqon, is almost aris- 
tocratic, too. Alenqon Delaporte Slopshire. Maybe his 
mother was scared by a dictionary or a French map. Uncle 
Del — no, it won’t do! Uncle — ^Uncle Lancy!” she cried, 
in a bellow of triumph. 

“Uncle — Lancy ?” 

“Yes. Kind of an offshoot from Alenqon. Very clubby. 
Lancy ! That’s good. That’s fine !” 

“But — ^will he like that ?” 


43 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


“He will — when the votes are counted/^ said Aunt 
Olympia grimly. 

It was hard for the girls to decide to make this very 
drastic change in their quiet, ordered lives. Helen was sure 
it would be good for Adele and Limpy; but for herself she 
clung to the old home, the old town, the old life. The girls 
refused to go without her. They agreed to think it over, 
quietly, dispassionately, for one more night; they would 
make their final decision on the morrow. 

Although Aunt Olympia agreed cheerfully enough to 
the program of thinking-over, she was of no mind to let 
things rest there. She had no confidence in anyone’s 
thinking but her own and was determined to clinch her 
arguments and insure a decision in her own favor. Since 
not even a political appeal for their campaign support had 
won them, it was clear to her extremely logical mind that 
the decision could be attained in only one way. 

She prepared for bed leisurely. She gave the curving 
under-chin a dozen or more extra strokes for good meas- 
ure. She donned two dressing gowns, the handsomest one, 
trimmed with marabou, on the outside for effect, with a 
soft flannel beneath for warmth, for the old parsonage was 
not as warmly heated as her Shoreham apartment in Wash- 
ington. Then, considering that sufficient time had elapsed 
to allow the girls to be settled in their beds for the night, 
she cautiously opened her door and listened. The house was 
enwrapped in silence; but two small slits of light under 
closed doors down the corridor showed that the girls had 
not retired. 

Aunt Olympia, panting pleasurably, tiptoed noiselessly 
down the hall. A low murmur of voices from one closed 
44 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


door assured her that Helen and Adele were talking things 
over. But she passed on and tapped softly at Limpy^s door, 
opening it immediately to a very narrow crack. 

‘Ximpy?'’ she whispered. 

“Yes, come in. Oh, it's you, Auntie 1" 

Limpy was sitting erect in the middle of her bed, her 
arms clasped about her upraised knees : slim, tragic youth, 
making a show of bravery in scarlet pajamas — a, bravery 
belied by the tears that clung to her lashes. 

She did not move as Aunt Olympia tiptoed softly in, 
fingers to her lips enjoining silence, and sat down on the 
foot of the bed. 

But it was Limpy who opened the conversation. 

“Aunt Olympia, isn't it — ^terrible — and terrifying — ^that 
things change so quickly? Oh, so quickly! It gives you 
such an — unsure — feeling. To think that just last week 
our life was so settled, so taken care of I We knew just 
what we were going to do for — oh, any number of years ! 
And now — a week later — ^the whole world is just reeling 
and rocking over our heads." There was a faint flash of 
her impish smile. “My English teacher would say that 
‘under our feet' would be more consistent. But it's so-^ 
terrifying." 

Aunt Olympia fished in the voluminous folds of marabou 
for a handkerchief to mop her eyes. Something about 
Limpy moved her swiftly to emotion : tears, now ; but in 
normal times, it would be laughter. 

“No, Limpy," she said, trying to quench the quivering 
of her under-chin with a rough finger, “it isn't terrifying. 
You mustn't let it be terrifying. You must think it is kind 
and beautiful and rather inspiring; that changes come so 

45 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


quickly, without warning. Just suppose you had all known, 
you girls and your parents, that this terrible thing would 
happen and could not be prevented. Think what a heart- 
breaking week that would have been ! No, you must just 
feel that however settled life is today, tomorrow it may all 
be changed. If today is bad, probably tomorrow will be 
better.” Her own philosophy brightened her. ^‘Take the 
Senator for instance. A week ago, I was pretty sure the 
Senator was licked. Now I can hardly wait for the cam- 
paign to open, Fm so anxious to show them my new bag 
of tricks.” 

“I doubt if Helen will go,” said Limpy wisely. ‘‘She’s 
more settled than Adele and I. She feels that home is here. 
And Adele won’t go without Helen and I won’t go with- 
out both of them.” 

“Limpy, I want to make a deal with you,” said Aunt 
Olympia, her voice sinking to a congressional whisper, 
after the fashion of making deals. . . . “It’s cold in here. 
Pass me a corner of that blanket, will you ? . . . Limpy, I’ve 
been sizing you girls up and I’ve been sizing this town and 
all these people up, and I’m a good sizer-up. For instance ! 
Helen is a perfect angel, too good for her own good. She 
will make any sacrifice in the world for Adele and you. 
Adele is the most beautiful thing I ever laid my eyes on, 
and anybody as beautiful as that doesn’t need any other 
asset. People will put up with her all her life for her looks, 
though so far, I must say, she’s easy to put up with, in addi- 
tion to her looks. You’re just a child and haven’t really 
come into your real looks, but you’re smart ; you’re smart 
as the dickens. And there are people who like smartness 
even better than looks.” 

46 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


‘T wish you’d talk that over with my math prof. You 
heard what he did to me last semester !” 

‘‘Good ! Now, Limpy, you’ve not only got my name, but 
you’ve got a lot of my good horse sense and I’m going to 
talk plain facts to you. Can you take it ?” 

“Yes, I can take it, but my reputation is that I give as 
good as I get.” 

“Good ! I can take it, too. Now I want to make a deal 
with you. You’re seventeen, minus. A year here or there, 
one place or another, doesn’t mean a thing to you. You’ve 
got time ahead of you for everything and every place. But 
this is the last chance that Helen, and probably Adele, will 
have to get out and go places and meet people and see 
things. When she settles down here to teach school, 
Helen’ll end up by marrying some grocery boy or farm- 
hand and there’s an end of her. Now I’ve got nothing 
against grocery boys and farmhands. If she wants them, 
she can have them. But you — ^you alone — can give her a 
chance to try other things first; so she can make up her 
mind what she wants and know what she’s getting. As for 
Adele, that girl — well, that girl — Well, you’ve got imag- 
ination ! You can see what a year in Washington can do 
for her — ^with her looks — ^and the Senator’s contacts.” 

“And the deal ?” Limpy reminded her drily. 

“I’m coming to that. It won’t mean so much to you, 
Limpy; I realize that. You’re still a schoolgirl. But if, 
for their sakes, you’ll work with me and try to put this 
thing across and help me out for a year — ^and keep yourself 
sort of in the background until I get them settled — for 
you’re smarter than both of them put together — ^well, if 
you’ll do that, Limpy, when the year is up. I’ll stand by you 

47 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


and back you up in an)^hing you want to do, and Til pay 
the bills. You can travel, or go to college, or go into society, 
or go to the devil ; and I’ll buy your ticket.” 

‘T think you’ve got something there,” said Limpy 
thoughtfully. “But how can we swing it ?” 

“By pretending that it is for your sake and yours alone; 
and that you won’t go a step without them, for a year, at 
least. Talk up the educational advantages of good schools, 
eastern experience, political contacts — ^all for your own 
exclusive good. They’ll fall for it.” 

“But, Auntie, suppose we make this deal — ^and they go — 
and then are unhappy there ?” 

Aunt Olympia lapsed immediately into tears. “Limpy, 
they can leave in a minute if we can’t make them happy. 
They can go and I won’t say a word. It — it would just 
break me all up to see them — unhappy — ^again, after this.” 

“Yes, I know. Auntie,” said Limpy kindly. “Okay! 
Will do!” 

“Shake !” said Aunt Olympia triumphantly. But instead 
of shaking hands she drew the slim, red-garbed little figure 
into her arms and held her very close. “You’d think I 
could have had — one — just one, Limpy, wouldn’t you?” 
she said, brokenly. 

“Well, by the time you get the three of us off your 
hands, you may decide you’re pretty lucky after all,” said 
Limpy, philosophically. 

Still, Aunt Olympia was not satisfied. A three-cornered 
deal, though highly dangerous, often insured success where 
a mere double pact fell short. Aunt Olympia wanted abso- 
lute insurance on this, complete coverage. 

She closed Limpy’s door softly behind her and, panting 

48 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 

with approval of her own devious methods, tiptoed to that 
other door that showed a slit of light at the sill. The girls’ 
murmurs were still faintly audible. 

She opened the door. 

‘‘Girls ?” she said, softly. “May I come in ?” 

The girls, older, more thoughtful perhaps than Limpy, 
bounded out of bed to receive her. They brought a chair 
for her and drew up a footstool. Helen turned the light 
so it would not reflect in her eyes. 

“Girls,” she said, “excuse me for intruding like this, but 
I want to make a deal with you and I don’t want Limpy to 
know about it.” 

“It was nice of you to come. Auntie,” said Helen politely. 
“We are so nervous and so keyed-up we cannot sleep 
anyhow.” 

“Well, I want to make a deal with you, and I’m not going 
to beat around the bush about it. I’ve set my heart on 
giving Limpy a chance in life, a big chance, and I’m not 
going to mince words. That child has character; she has 
personality ; she has what it takes. I want her to go to the 
best schools, to travel, to meet people. There’s something 
in her and I want to have a hand in developing it. Now, 
girls, you must realize that you can’t remain together all 
your lives. You will go to school in different places ; when 
you go to work you will be separated ; when you are mar- 
ried, you will be more widely divided. Your mother and 
I were as close as you three are, and look how we drifted 
apart. But right now, Limpy, so young, so sad, will never 
go with me and leave you. That’s why I ask you, for her 
sake, to make this sacrifice for a year, to help her adjust 
herself to her future life of independence. I know that 

49 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


coming to Washington doesn’t mean much to you two. You 
are older. Your plans are made. You know what you want. 
You have already charted your courses. But Limpy is still 
at sea and I want to see her heading for the right port. 
Now, if you girls will make this sacrifice, for her sake, 
just for this one year to let her try it out, I promise to do 
everything in my power to make you as happy as can be 
and give you good and valuable experience. The Senator — 
Uncle Lancy, I mean — is well enough off; he can afford 
anything in reason. You can see the life in Washington, 
you can learn about politics and government — and modern 
women ought to know about those things. If you will 
come with me for this one year, you can do absolutely 
whatever you please after that. You can come back and 
teach school and marry some grocery boy if you want to ; 
or you can take a trip around the world — ^at Del’s expense — 
I mean Uncle Lancy ’s. Adele can go to any school she 
wants to and I’ll foot the bills. All I ask is for you to give 
up this one year — for Limpy.” 

‘There won’t be any argument about the future ?” asked 
Helen in her soft voice. “There will be no ill feeling about 
it — if, after this one year — ^we come back and take up life 
as we want to ?” 

“Absolutely and irrevocably. But after one year, I think, 
I hope, maybe I can keep Limpy. And the Senator will 
make her his heir, you know — that’s something. He’s only 
got cousins on his side and he doesn’t even like them.” 

“You’re sure he won’t dig up some trumpeting great- 
aunt you don’t know about and gum up the works?” said 
Adele mischievously. 

“Not the Senator ! He lets me do the digging up, and 

50 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


my taste doesn't run to trumpeting aunts." Her compla- 
cency was sublime. ‘T would certainly like to see Len 
Hardesty's face when he hears about my orphans !" 

‘Ten Hardesty?" The girls had difficulty keeping pace 
with Aunt Olympia's swift flights. 

“A snake-in-the-grass if ever lived one. He used to be 
our publicity man and the Senator out of the bigness of his 
heart, like the fool he is, turned him over to Brother 
Wilkie — ^the Governor — for his first campaign and now 
he's signed him up to a contract and we can’t get him back. 
He has to go on working for the Governor and against 
us — ^the Governor and the brats and the trumpeter — and 
bites the hand that would be glad to feed him, for he can't 
be beaten at his racket. In my opinion,” she added con- 
fidentially, “it was Len Hardesty who dug up the beldame 
and the ear trumpet. Brother Wilkie isn't smart enough to 
think that up. Len Hardesty's smart as the Old Nick." 

“But why doesn't the Senator — " 

“Uncle Lancy, darling.” 

“Uncle Lancy. Why doesn't he hire him back?" 

“Because Brother Wilkie, as soon as he decided to run, 
signed Len to a contract to work for him all this year. . . . 
That’s the church for you ! Won't take a gentleman's word 
for anything. Makes him sign on the dotted line and 
threatens to fight it out in the courts. And you can't beat a 
preacher in the courts on anything short of murder! . . . 
Well, I just wanted to be frank with you, girls. I want 
you to know just where I stand. I know it doesn't mean 
much to you, personally, but it may mean the world to 
Limpy.” 

Aunt Olympia returned to her own room and retired to 

51 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


bed in such a glow of contentment that she did not feel 
the cold. She would have been surprised, perhaps a little 
disconcerted, if she had known that, almost before her 
door was closed upon her, Helen was saying briskly. 

“Well, we may as well settle this right now and then 
maybe we can get a little sleep. Let’s have it out with 
Limpy.” 

Limpy still sat cross-legged and erect on her bed. She 
was smiling mistily. 

“Girls,” Helen began abruptly, “I want to make a deal 
with you.” 

“Helen!” cried Adele, with soft laughter in her voice. 
“Be careful! You’re catching it! You’re getting political !” 

“We’ll have to be political, every one of us, to hold our 
own with Aunt Olympia even halfway. . . . Now you real- 
ize, of course, that for purely personal and selfish reasons I 
do not want to go away from here at all. I hate terribly to 
leave Brick this year, when he’s going to be all messed up 
in his first campaign and will most certainly want me near 
him. But I do realize it is a magnificent opportunity for 
both of you. I will go with you, with Aunt Olympia, on 
one condition.” 

“Aha! The deal! I smell a rat.” 

“Yes, the deal. You can see that absolutely without 
reason she has taken a violent dislike to Brick. If she knew 
he was running for Congress from this district — and going 
to be elected, too ! — she would always be against him and 
make fun of him and call him a delivery boy. Even when 
he gets to Washington she will look down on him. But 
she has hardly so much as caught a glimpse of him and 
she doesn’t even know his name. If he is elected — and he 
52 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


will be ! — she will meet him as a new Member from Iowa 
and she’ll forget the grocery store. I want you to promise 
not even to mention his name to her. Don’t tell her a thing 
about him. And don’t in any circumstances let her find out 
that we are engaged.” 

‘‘But Brick’s so swell, Helen,” protested Limpy. 

“All the more reason for not inciting her prejudice. She 
can’t help liking him if she meets him under different cir- 
cumstances.” 

“But won’t he think it very strange, Helen, if we don’t 
have him meet her? I thought you had asked him for 
dinner tomorrow night on purpose.” 

“So I have. But I shall un-ask him tomorrow.” 

“But won’t it hurt his feelings ? I wouldn’t hurt Brick’s 
feelings for the world !” 

“Oh, I’ll take care of that. I’ll just tell him the truth. 
And he can see that it would be wicked for you girls to miss 
this opportunity.” Helen cocked her head on one side and 
slowly winked her left eye. 

Adele laughed again. “There you go, Helen; more pol- 
itics,” she said accusingly. 

“Yes. I’ll go, and I’m going to make the most of it, 
too. Brick is going to be elected to Congress and I am 
going to marry him and, though she doesn’t know it. Aunt 
Olympia is going to teach me the political racket from the 
ground up. I’m going to make a business of learning 
everything she knows — and she knows plenty. Then 
when we are married, I can be a real help to Brick. And she 
won’t object to my marrying him when he’s a congress- 
man. Is it a deal ?” 

“Okay by me,” said Limpy cheerfully. And added more 

53 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


soberly, “It would seem very strange to keep on living 
here — outside the parsonage. And we wouldn’t be very 
happy alone — just the three of us — ^without them.” 

“Yes, I feel that way, too,” said Adele. “So it’s a 
deal, Helen. But I am afraid I am the only one who’s 
going to get much excitement out of Washington. Poor 
Limpy will have to plug along in school — poor Helen will 
be plugging at politics, plus the pangs of parting from 
Brick — and only little Adele will be free to enjoy things.” 

“We do not begrudge it to you, darling,” Helen said. 
“You deserve it. I have so often wished you could — ^be 
away from here for a while. Mother wished it, too. We 
often talked of it. You are so sweet, Adele, and so very 
pretty. But oh, Adele, do be careful, won’t you? You’re 
almost too good-looking, and everybody says that even 
quite respectable men get to be perfect devils about women 
when they go to Congress. That’s why I didn’t want Brick 
to run in the first place !” 

Aunt Olympia received the girls’ quiet announcement of 
their acceptance of her offer with a rush of happy tears 
and immediately put in a call for the Senator to inform 
him of the good news. It was no news to the Senator. As 
soon as Aunt Olympia had said she wanted to bring them, 
the Senator had considered the fact already accomplished. 
He did think she might have handled the affair more expe- 
ditiously ; he could see no reason at all for leaving the girls 
behind her to settle up their small affairs. Olympia could 
certainly have settled any affairs they might have in the 
two days that had elapsed since the funeral. 

Aunt Olympia herself had not been too well pleased 
about returning home without them. She had a desperate 
54 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


fear, from an experience with constituents longer and more 
intimate than with orphaned young nieces, of last-minute 
mind-changings. But she contented herself, of necessity, 
with bolstering her case by making separate and secret deals 
with each of the girls to wire her, collect, at the first mere 
hint of a mind-changing on the part of any one of them, 
promising to fly out immediately, in any weather, at any 
cost, to salvage her precious campaign material. 

Immediately after breakfast on that happy day of Aunt 
Olympiads great triumph, Helen quietly prepared to hurry 
off to town. But she did not escape the watchfulness of 
Aunt Olympia’s pale blue eyes. 

‘‘Going out, Helen ?” she inquired crisply. 

“For a while. To do a little shopping and a few errands.” 

“Well, you might tell that delivery boy to put on his 
gloves and his new necktie and bring me a nickel’s worth 
of gumdrops,” said Aunt Olympia. 

Helen laughed good-naturedly. “You could save four 
cents by getting a peppermint stick instead,” was her reply. 

Aunt Olympia liked that. Sense of humor. It was a 
great asset. With youth and good looks. Aunt Olympia 
considered the combination unbeatable. 

Brick Landis did not come to dinner that night, and the 
next order of groceries was delivered by truck. Aunt 
Olympia noticed that, too, but refrained from comment. 
But at luncheon she remarked, with her most elaborate 
assumption of nonchalance, “I hope you girls are not mixed 
up with beaux or anything like that.” 

Limpy answered quickly. “Oh, Auntie, darling, is that 
the low opinion you have of us? Why, even I have had 
my admirers since the day I stepped out of the cradle. And 

55 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


if you take a good look at Adele, you can’t help realizing 
that she has followers.” 

‘‘Our whole church knows that we three girls are to 
thank for the presence of two young tenors and a good 
basso in our choir every Sunday night,” added Adele. 
“And if you aren’t going to let us have admirers in Wash- 
ington, I shan’t go a step. They’re my besetting habit. 
And you can’t teach an old girl to get along without beaux.” 

Their frankness was almost sufficient to disarm Aunt 
Olympia. She was highly pleased. “You can have all the 
admirers you want. But until after election I wish you’d 
let me pick them out. I don’t want you to get off on the 
wrong foot. One mis-admirer has wrecked more cam- 
paigns than you could shake a stick at.” Aunt Olympia 
smirked at the girls’ quick laughter for her pat coinage of 
“mis-admirer.” She thought it was good herself. 

“Well, don’t be arbitrary,” said Limpy. “At least con- 
sider our tastes. I like wise-crackers, Adele takes them 
romantic, and Helen wants them to have a purpose in life 
and honorable intentions.” 

“I’ll bear it in mind.” Aunt Olympia liked the turn the 
conversation had taken. If she had known the girls better 
it would have put her definitely on guard. “Anyhow, no 
preachers. They’re so apt to turn on you — ^politically, I 
mean. And no newspapermen. Especially, no newspaper- 
men.” 

“But I have always heard that newspapermen are so in- 
teresting,” said Helen. 

“They’re too damn interesting,” said Aunt Olympia. 
“You don’t dare open your mouth to them. If you should 
mention to a good newspaperman like Len Hardesty — 
working for the Opposition — ^that it is a foul day, he would 
56 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


print it in big caps that you are finding fault with God. 
And if you say it is a nice day, he says you are giving the 
Senator credit for the weather.” 

The girls laughed. Their laughter gratified Aunt 
Olympia. The Senator, for all his good points, never 
laughed at her remarks. Usually he coughed deprecatingly 
and looked mildly pained. Sometimes he did worse. He 
coughed deprecatingly and said, “She’s joking, you know.” 
That remark had taken the edge off many of Aunt Olym- 
pia’s most biting comments. 

So the girls’ response in bubbling laughter excited her 
to more exaggerated flights. 

“The only thing I really liked about Len Hardesty,” she 
said, “was that he knew a good crack when he heard it. He 
didn’t exactly laugh but he looked jealous and said he 
wished he had said that and he would be saying it next. 
He was, too. When he was with us he used to spend hours 
with me, getting copy. 'Go on, now, Ollie,’ he’d say — ^he 
calls me Ollie. 'Go on, now, Ollie, be good and dirty. Give 
me some copy.’ ” 

“Does he call you Ollie?” The girls were plainly hor- 
rified. 

“When a newspaperman calls you by your first name, it’s 
a sign you’re somebody. They don’t waste their familiarity 
on little fry.” 

“Make a note of that, Helen,” said Limpy, slily. “That’s 
very important.” 

And then, to Aunt Olympia’s great surprise, though she 
tried to laugh it off, Helen flushed deeply and looked con- 
fused. Aunt Olympia puzzled a good deal over that. She 
thought back, carefully, over just what had been said but 
she couldn’t find anything in it to blush about. 


57 


Chapter III 


Senator Slopshire did not wait for the return of Aunt 
Olympia to begin getting ready for the children. Imme- 
diately after hanging up the receiver, and hardly waiting 
long enough to wipe the moisture from his glasses, he 
called the servants’ quarters on the first floor and asked 
their maid, Hilda, to come up right away. 

“What’s the matter, Senator? You sick?” she asked 
dourly. 

“No, I’m not sick. I cannot discuss the matter over the 
telephone. Come immediately.” 

Hilda dressed hastily, with considerable show of irrita- 
tion, and went up. Hilda was a tall, angular, unhappy- 
looking Scandinavian. Aunt Olympia described her as a 
“sour Swede.” Next to being an almost superlative house- 
keeper and cook, disapproval was Hilda’s outstanding char- 
acteristic. When friends in Washington expressed surprise 
at Aunt Olympia’s loyal retention of Hilda in the District 
where colored girls from the South could be had at half 
the wage. Aunt Olympia explained, with her usual frank- 
ness : 

“There’s no appreciable colored vote in our state, but we 
have several large and influential Scandinavian settle- 
ments.” 

As a matter of fact, they could hardly have got along 
without Hilda. She took entire charge of their apartment 
in Washington during their residence there and assumed 
58 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 

the same responsibility for the household when they were 
at home. She cooked, she cleaned, she marketed, she sewed. 
She even darned the Senator’s socks, frowning disapproval 
with every stitch. She obeyed every order she received, did 
everything she was told — and did it better than Olympia 
could possibly have told her — and gloomily disapproved of 
all they did and all they said. 

She found the Senator standing distractedly in the center 
of the floor rubbing his glasses. He put them on at sight 
of her and began to give orders. 

‘‘Now, we’ll have to get beds made up for them and 
we’ll have to have in breakfast cereals and nourishing food 
and order more milk.” 

Hilda did not show surprise ; she had always considered 
him mildly crazy anyhow. 

“For the children,” he explained belatedly. “Our poor 
dear children are coming to live with us.” 

“I’m not at all sure,” said Hilda frowning darkly, “that 
the management here wants any more children cluttering 
up the hallways and scratching furniture.” 

“I don’t know just where we’re going to put beds for 
the little tykes,” he said. “Mrs. Slopshire wasn’t very ex- 
plicit.” 

“What time they getting in?” asked Hilda. 

“I don’t know yet. Two or three days, I suppose. She 
said something about a week but there’s no use waiting.” 

“I’ll attend to the beds and I’ll order oatmeal. Good 
night. Senator,” said Hilda coldly and withdrew. 

The Senator dressed nervously and went downstairs to 
talk things over with the management. It was only eleven 
o’clock and certainly no time should be lost. 


59 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 

The manager was a more sympathetic auditor than 
Hilda. He agreed with the Senator that the children’s 
place was certainly right there in the Shoreham with the 
Senator and suggested fixing up a nice nursery adjoining 
their apartment. He was even more enthusiastic about 
the matter when the Senator got around to* explaining that 
it wasn’t exactly a nursery that would be required, since the 
poor dear orphans ranged upward from nearly seventeen to 
twenty-one. He agreed to all the Senator’s suggestions: 
that there should be more plain food served and a lesser 
amount of high seasonings and rich French sauces; to see 
that the detectives kept a close watch, particularly on his 
floor, to prevent possible abductions; to guarantee that 
the pool be emptied frequently and scientifically disin- 
fected, the Senator feeling it would be a grievous embar- 
rassment to him if one of his orphans should contract 
athlete’s foot ; and to watch the entire clientele with strict 
attentiveness so that no obnoxious individuals should 
seize opportunity to drum up acquaintance with the 
children. 

The manager of the Shoreham was used to dealing with 
senatorial patronage, and had learned from long and 
profitable experience that the only way to get along with 
officeholders is to agree wholeheartedly and even respect- 
fully to every word they utter, and then go right ahead 
running the Shoreham on its ordinary efficient basis. He 
did not even bat an eye at the Senator’s anxiety about the 
innocence — and the consequent necessity for paternal 
watch-care — of three orphan girls ranging from seventeen 
up. The Shoreham knew a lot more about girls than 
Senator Slopshire. But, as the manager philosophically 

60 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


concluded, ‘^What the Senator doesn’t know is certainly 
no business of mine.” 

The Senator was pretty well pleased with himself when 
he returned to his apartment. He felt that he had ac- 
complished a good deal. But he was far too excited to 
sleep. He tried balancing his checkbook to while away the 
time, but found it in such involved condition that he gave 
up and contented himself with writing out a preliminary 
check for each of the girls, Helen, Adele and Limpy. Then 
he took the Congressional Record and went to bed and 
fell asleep immediately. 

His enthusiasm did not wane overnight. He was on 
the subject again before breakfast the next morning. 

'T’m not sure we get enough sun here for children,” he 
complained to Hilda. “I’ll speak to the management about 
it. . . . We’d better get our fresh eggs from the country 
hereafter. . . . Remind me, Hilda, to ask the Health De- 
partment to send me their books on bringing up children.” 

He arrived early at his office in the Senate Office Build- 
ing and informed his secretaries and clerks that he wanted 
things straightened up around there and put in good order 
without delay. 

“The children will be down here with me a good deal,” 
he said, “and I want them^to get the habit of orderliness 
at an early age. And you’d better order in some good 
magazines and books so if they get tired they’ll have some- 
thing on hand to amuse them. And call the custodian right 
away and tell him I need more chairs, and I want good 
chairs and comfortable chairs. Some of these government 
chairs would give a young back curvature of the spine. 
They almost give me curvature of the spine.” 


61 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


He suggested to his fellow committee members that he 
would like them to hurry along and clear up the calendar 
as fast as they could, as he would have to spend a great 
deal of time with his children from this on. 

He went shopping, too, and had a great many things 
sent up, most of which Hilda returned without comment. 
He read all the advertisements designed to attract * ‘young 
ladies’’ ; “what the girls are wearing,” “these for the sweet 
young things.” One in particular caught his eye. “All 
the smart young gals are wearing dirndls this year.” 
Dirndls? Dirndls! 

“Dirndl!” he ejaculated. “Dirndl.” 

Hilda thought he was swearing until he showed her a 
picture of it. 

“It’s a dress,” she said coldly. 

“But they’ve always worn dresses,” he remonstrated. 
“It can’t be a mere dress.” 

“If that’s a picture of it you’re showing me,” said Hilda, 
“it’s a dress.” 

“I don’t suppose they have them in Iowa,” he said. “It’s 
something new! I’ll have a little surprise for them. I’ll 
get them some dirndls.” 

But he had no success. After an hour explaining what 
he wanted and selecting what he thought were bright 
cheerful colors for sad children, he found that girls’ dresses 
come not by age but by size. 

On the whole it was a relief to him when Olympia re- 
turned home and he could turn things over to her. Olympia 
was ready. Having pondered certain matters deeply in 
her innermost consciousness all the way home by train, she 
was ripe for action. 

62 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


“Del, I want to ask your advice about something. About 
those poor dear children. Do you think we should take a 
larger apartment or should we move into a house ?’* 

The Senator beamed at her. “I thought of that very 
thing,” he said. “Ask Hilda if I didn’t. I think we should 
take a house, though it will be a great disappointment to 
the management for they can hardly wait till the children 
get here. . . . Still, I think we should take a house. Chil- 
dren should have a home and only a house is a home.” 

“An apartment is part of a house and home is what you 
make it,” she contradicted him flatly. “And an apartment 
is closer together, more intimate. I want them to be inti- 
mate. I want them to get used to seeing you around and 
being with you and — if possible — ^to like you as if you 
were their very own. . . . Before the campaign starts,” she 
added significantly. 

It must be said for the Senator that never once had he 
remotely thought of the children as latent campaign ma- 
terial. 

“Oh, they’ve got plenty of time to get used to me,” he 
said mildly. 

“Well, it took me a good many years to get used to you 
and even now sometimes I’m surprised. Very much sur- 
prised! Besides, a hotel apartment is more accessible. 
Accessible to newspapermen and photographers as well as 
constituents. . . . Fortunately, they photograph well. . . . 
Yes, you’re right, Del. We’d better take a larger apart- 
ment and stay where we are. This year at least. Next 
year is another year.” 

Their talk during those intervening days was all of the 
children. The Senator wiped his glasses without inter- 

63 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


mission during a full hour while Olympia told him the sad 
details of the tragedy and the funeral. He did not brighten 
until she added thoughtfully : 

“As Limpy says, it’s just terrifying the way things 
happen so out of a clear sky. But as I said to Limpy, there’s 
always something to look forward to. I was all cut up — 
I was terribly cut up — about this horrible tragedy.” Her 
chin quivered a little and tears flooded her eyes. “And 
yet just look ! Nothing else in the world could have given 
us those children.” 

“We’ll be very good to them,” said the Senator. “I’ll 
buy them anything they want.” The Senator’s sole idea of 
being good to children was to buy them things. 

“Del,” Olympia said, almost pleadingly, “I want you to 
help me about something.” That shocked the Senator. He 
was used to having his advice asked when Olympia had 
her mind made up. He was used to receiving orders for 
co-operation or for the carrying out of plans. For 
Olympia to ask his help, ask it pleadingly, was something 
new. 

“Helen,” she explained, tearfully, “is going home next 
winter and marry a grocery store. She doesn’t know I 
know it, so kindly do not make any comments about it. 
She’s of age and it’s nobody’s business but her own. 
Adele is so beautiful that she’s bound to be gobbled up 
immediately and that’s an end of her. But Del,” Olympia 
began to cry softly, which so distressed the Senator that he 
set at once to wiping his glasses though he had no idea 
what she was crying about, “Del, there’s Limpy! If we 
work this thing right, we can have Limpy! She’s only 
sixteen ; she calls it seventeen minus, but she’s only sixteen. 
64 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 

If we make her happy and she learns to like us, we can 
have her. I — Del, I never wanted anything so much in my 
life.” And she fell to crying again. 

The Senator didn’t even cough. ‘‘Ollie,” he said firmly, 
‘‘if you want that child, you can have her. You deserve 
her, Ollie. If she turns out to be a nice child and you 
want her, you can have her.” 

“She’s a grand child, Del. She’s just grand ! And named 
after me, too. . . . You’d think she might like me all right, 
wouldn’t you? . . . They’re all nice children,” she ad- 
mitted, rather grudgingly. “Helen is a little pig-headed. 
You wouldn’t think a person as angelic as Helen could be 
so pig-headed about a delivery boy. Adele’s nice, too. I 
wouldn’t have believed such a beauty could be so nice if I 
hadn’t seen it with my own eyes. . . . But Limpy — Del, 
Limpy is the cockiest, bravest little thing you ever saw. 
She’s — ^well, it made me sick to have to come away and 
leave her even for three weeks. I kept wanting all the time 
to pick her up and start running with her.” 

“Do you want her as much as that, Ollie?” he asked, 
rather awkwardly. They had been married a long time and 
sweet speeches between them had come to seem artificial 
and affected, but he really thought a great deal of Olympia ; 
he was actually fond of her. “Ollie, you’re all right ! And 
an)^hing you want as much as that. I’m going to see that 
you get !” 

“It’s not as simple as that,” she said ruefully. “But Del, 
I give you my word, I — I want Limpy so much that I’d 
rather have her than have you lick that damn preacher. 
I’d rather have her than the whole Senate and the House 
thrown in. I’d rather have her than the White House !” 

65 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


That settled it for the Senator. Limpy was virtually 
their child. 

Aunt Olympia occupied herself until the girls’ arrival 
by a systematic procedure which she called ‘'building them 
up.” There were details to be attended to, of course; 
taking a larger apartment, for instance ; laying in additional 
household supplies ; sending back almost daily the curious 
assortment of gifts the Senator sent up in advance of 
their coming. But in the main, she devoted herself to 
“building them up.” She saw everyone, she accepted every 
invitation, she resumed attendance at all her neglected 
clubs. She gave a large luncheon. She even went calling 
on just the right people. She talked constantly of “my 
poor dear children.” She showed pictures of them, the 
most flattering ones. She apologized for her constant rush 
by saying she wanted to get everything of a social nature 
off her calendar before the poor dear children arrived. 
“Naturally, then, my place will be with them. They are 
very sad. Such a tragedy 1 But their uncle and I will do 
what we can to comfort them.” 

Every word, every gesture, was deliberately planned to 
whet interest, to arouse sympathy, to insure a profusion of 
polite courtesies with attendant publicity. 

She wrote letters to her friends at home — voters, every 
one! — recounting the tragedy to the last gory adjective. 
And invariably added, “We shall have our three dear little 
nieces with us this summer. Naturally, they will make their 
home with us. I do want them to find new interest in life 
and come gradually out from this terrible shadow that has 
so darkened their beautiful youth. I know you will help 
me.” 

66 


r 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


Due largely to these tireless and effectual preliminaries, 
the Senator got a very good press on his benign adoption 
of the three young orphans. He, along with Olympia and 
a crowd of newspapermen and photographers, met them on 
their arrival at Union Station. Uncle Lancy was photo- 
graphed with them in many interesting poses; kissing 
Limpy, the youngest; patting the grave Helen paternally 
on the shoulder; chucking the beautiful Adele under her 
highly photographic chin. He was photographed, too, 
wiping the moisture from his glasses with a very large, 
very white handkerchief. It was genuine moisture. The 
picture was appropriately captioned, ‘‘Senator Weeps Over 
Pretty, Pathetic Young Wards.” 

Even Aunt Olympia pronounced the arrival a complete 
success. 

The girls, though touched by the tender warmth, the 
unmistakably sincere sympathy of the Senator's attitude, 
were shy with him at first. Even with persistent prodding 
by Aunt Olympia and prompt corroboration by the Sena- 
tor, it was not easy to call him “Uncle Lancy.” They 
avoided calling him an3^hing whenever possible. The 
Senator's very appearance had been a surprise to them. 
They had known former Senator Dickinson, Republican, 
slightly. They had even met Senator Gillette, though a 
Democrat. They were large, handsome men, rather fa- 
therly, almost benign, in appearance. The girls had vaguely 
expected all senators to be cut on that same pattern, except 
perhaps McAdoo, whose pictures flatly belied such claim. 

Senator Slopshire was neither of those types. He was 
neither large, nor tall, nor handsome, being instead rather 
jauntily rotund with a ruddy pink skin. He was slightly 

67 


1 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


bald and the top of his head was of a ruddy pinkness. He 
was definitely dapper, punctilious in every detail of dress, 
manner and speech. 

The girls found, to their delighted relief, that, for all her 
robust energy. Aunt Olympia was easy to live with. She 
was always alert, always humorously sarcastic, even bitter, 
but her pleasure in the girls' presence was obvious and she 
was flattered to rosy flushes by their spontaneous laugh- 
ter at her remarks. She gave them almost unlimited free- 
dom. She said that, in her opinion, “people should do as 
they pleased." If they wanted to get up for breakfast, they 
could. If they didn't, they could stay abed. If they wanted 
to come in when there were callers, she was glad to have 
them ; if they were disinclined, she made voluble excuse for 
them. Best of all, she was not snoopy and she never pried. 
Anything that came naturally within range of her eyes or 
ears went immediately into her storehouse of knowledge 
and was used to telling effect. But she never snooped. 

Helen sometimes wondered uneasily if all this “doing as 
she pleased" was quite the best training for Limpy, at such 
a tender age. After all, she was only a child. One evening, 
as they sat together before the fireplace in the big living 
room, part of Olympia's persistent campaign to “make 
them intimate," Helen said : 

“Auntie, have you inquired about a school for Limpy? 
The second semester should begin very soon now, I think." 

“Yes," said Olympia promptly. “I have a list of all the 
girls' schools in the District and I know just what they're 
good for. All Limpy has to do is to decide whether she 
wants to educate herself up to society, to the night clubs, to 
get married, or go into business." 

68 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


The Senator took off his glasses, wiped them thoroughly 
and coughed deprecatingly. 

‘‘My dear, do you think it^s wise starting the child into 
school in the middle of the year, and such a very hard year ? 
In my opinion, she needs a rest and a change and a little 
vacation. She looks thin and pale to me !’^ 

The girls and Olympia turned shocked eyes to inspect the 
astonished Limpy, whose face turned a deep rose from de- 
lighted excitement at thought of escaping school. 

“Limpy, don’t you feel well? You do look feverish!” 
ejaculated Aunt Olympia, in a panic of alarm. 

“Of course she’s feverish,” said the Senator. “And pale, 
too, for that matter. Why shouldn’t she be pale and fever- 
ish? Look at all she’s gone through! Too much study 
doesn’t do a young mind any good. I say let her come 
around with me and see the sights and get a good rest. She 
can get enough schooling next year.” 

Aunt Olympia was more than distressed ; she was terri- 
fied. This was Limpy! 

“Limpy, do you feel sick? Have you any pain?” she 
quavered. And her alarm was for Limpy alone. She never 
once thought of the danger to her campaign. “Limpy, I 
don’t believe you do look very healthy. We’ll have the 
doctor in, right away. Maybe the Senator is right, girls. 
Maybe she’d better rest and take things easy this year.” 

“Of course I’m right,” said the Senator, well pleased 
with himself. “Certainly she’d better rest and have a good 
time. She can read good books when she feels like it. 
There’s real education in books. She can come up with 
me and listen to the Senate — though it is not usually very 
educational.” 


69 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


“I could coach her in trigonometry,” said Helen. ‘‘She’s 
going to have trouble with that when she goes to college.” 

“Of course!” said the Senator. “A few minutes a day 
won’t hurt her, but don’t run it into the ground.” 

And then suddenly Limpy came to life. She bounded 
out of her low chair, crossed the room in two lithe leaps 
and landed in a heap on the Senator’s rigid, unaccustomed 
knees. She clasped him in both arms, seriously deranging 
his two-dollar tie and knocking off his glasses. 

“Oh, Uncle Lancy, you darling !” she cried. “You per- 
fect old peach! What a simply swell idea! . . . Aunt 
Olympia, he’s right ! I swear I’m beginning to think maybe 
I very nearly do feel sick !” 

There was no further trouble about being intimate with 
Uncle Lancy. Limpy had taken him to their united bosom 
and he was theirs. But Helen took pains to select good 
books for her to read for educational purposes and gave 
her an hour’s grilling in trigonometry every day. After 
all, a child that age should spend some time learning 
something ! 

On an afternoon in March, when all official Washington 
was beginning to fret at the unconscionable delay of ad- 
journment, Aunt Olympia sat quietly, at peace with the 
world, reading the Congressional Record. She read every 
word of the Record these days — not, as usual, merely the 
portions that dealt with the Senator’s bills or committees. 
She didn’t dare miss a word, because already there were 
sly remarks, innuendos, even open accusations cropping out 
that had to do with purges, with party loyalty, with cam- 
paign expenses. Every such word was important to Aunt 
Olympia, with the Senator up for re-election. 

70 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


Adele stood between the deep blue curtains at the win- 
dow looking down into the hotel park. All outdoor things 
made her think of home and of old days and of that low 
mound in the cemetery back in Iowa; made her a little 
sad. She wore a graceful ankle-length gown of white crepe, 
with wide loose sleeves banded with soft black fur. Aunt 
Olympia had picked it out. A narrow band of black velvet 
confined Adele’s fair curls — ^that was her own idea. 

Hilda, the sour Swede, appeared suddenly at the door, 
prefacing her appearance with a suggestive cough. 

“I wish you wouldn’t cough,” said Aunt Olympia irri- 
tably. ‘‘You sound like the Senator about to take the edge 
off something good. If you’ve got anything to say, take 
a cough drop and say it.” 

“Mr. Len Hardesty is downstairs and craves a few 
minutes,” said Hilda. 

Aunt Olympia flung the Record halfway across the 
room. She bounded out of her chair. She palpitated all 
over. Adele, turning between the curtains, regarded her 
with amazement. Aunt Olympia had never before shown 
temper, except verbally. 

“Len Hardesty ! That louse ! That snake-in-the-grass ! 
I won’t see him ! Don’t you let him cross my threshold ! 
Tell him I’m not at home.” 

“Sure you’re home, Ollie Slop, old top,” drawled a low 
voice, and Len Hardesty stood in the door. “I was afraid 
you’d be in one of your little pre-campaign moods, so I 
told them to announce me in five minutes and I came right 
on up and tapped at the side door and a very nice young 
lady at the telephone let me in and motioned me down here, 
and here I am.” 


71 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


‘‘Oh, hello, Len,” said Aunt Olympia, not at all un- 
pleasantly but rather cordially. 

“How lovely and serene you are today, with the Record 
at your feet,'' he went on coolly. “Where's Sloppy ?" 

“If you mean the Senator, he is where he should be, try- 
ing to bring some order out of a chaotic Congress." 

Her eyes went unconsciously to the motionless figure in 
black and white between the blue curtains. Quite naturally 
Len Hardesty's gaze followed hers. 

Swiftly his eyes widened. Inelegantly, his jaw dropped. 
Wordless for once he gaped at the vision between the cur- 
tains. Then he flung his hat to the floor and clutched his 
head in both hands. 

“My little niece, Adele, the Senator's middle ward," an- 
nounced Olympia, with a smirk of smug complacency. 

“Not one of the orphans ! Ollie, you wouldn't do that 
to an old pal! You couldn't be that low — not even you 
could be as low as that 1 You wouldn't sick your old buddy 
onto seven brats and a tin trumpet and then double-cross 
me with — ^heaven-on-earth ! Would you do that ?" 

“Oh, that's only one of them," said Aunt Olympia hap- 
pily. “We have three ! They adore the Senator I" 

“You couldn't have three! There couldn't be three. 
There are no miracles, not even in politics. She's not flesh 
and blood anyhow. She's wax. She's an automaton you've 
rigged up to throw a scare into me — ^and successfully, I ad- 
mit that, most successfully!" 

Adele, being stared at, dropped a very slight curtsey and 
smiled. 

“You pulled a wire!" Len Hardesty accused Aunt 
Olympia. “You know you pulled a wire. She's a female 
72 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


Charlie McCarthy, that’s what she is; but a damn sight 
better-looking.” 

‘^Well, what of it ? Charlie seems to be doing all right for 
himself. And so’s Adele, if you ask me! . . . Sit down, 
darling.” The warmth of her smile for Adele was beatific. 

“Ollie, I want to make a deal with you,” said Len 
Hardesty earnestly. ‘T’ll swap you the brats, all seven of 
’em, and the bellwether too, for this one; just this one. 
You can keep the others.” 

‘'Not interested. Definitely not interested,” said Aunt 
Olympia. “You will admit, then, that when I pick cam- 
paign material, I pick it.” 

“I’ll throw in two of Brother Wilkie’s best sermons and 
the tin trumpet. I’ll throw in the cane, too.” 

Aunt Olympia waved the idea from her with a happy 
gesture. 

Len Hardesty took another look at the smiling Adele. 
“To tell you the truth, Ollie,” he said humbly, “I’m not 
sure but I’ll throw in the Governor. ... Yes, come to think 
of it, I will ! I’ll throw in the Governor.” 

“I wouldn’t have him for fish bait,” she said contemp- 
tuously. “You made your political bed, now lie in it. If 
you can find room among the brats and the tin horn.” 

“I’d better have a drink, Ollie. I’d better have two 
drinks. I feel very badly. Low! Very low. She” — ^he 
nodded his head dolorously toward Adele — “wouldn’t 
know what we are talking about, Ollie, but you and I know. 
Well, I feel very bad in the pit of my stomach.” 

“Oh, I know about the pit of the stomach,” said Adele 
brightly. “It’s where you feel the most all-gone when you 
feel all-gone.” 


73 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 

“ril probably need three drinks. Ring, Ollie,’’ he said 
dully. 

Aunt Olympia, quivering with pleasure, rang for Hilda. 

“Since this snake-in-the-grass is bent on drinking him- 
self to death, we may as well do what we can to help along 
the good cause. Scotch and soda, Hilda, and a plain lemon- 
ade for Miss Adele.” 

Len Hardesty, still holding his head in both hands, stared 
uninterruptedly at Adele. 

“Can’t I do something for you? Can’t I be helpful? 
May I offer you a cigarette?” 

“Not now, thanks,” said Adele politely. 

“What do you mean, ‘Not now, thanks’? Don’t you 
smoke?” he asked moodily. 

“Oh, Aunt Olympia!” Adele cried reproachfully. “You 
said no one would ever suspect we don’t smoke if we just 
say, ‘Not now, thanks.’ ” 

“So she’s teaching you your lines, eh? I might have 
known it. I suppose it was she who taught you to run your 
eyelashes up and down like that and give a guy goose 
flesh.” 

“No, I must have got that from God. But she told me 
what to say about drinking.” 

“What did she tell you to say?” he asked in sepulchral 
tones. “Whatever it is, it’s going to be a vote-getter.” 

“She said if a gentleman simply insists that you take a 
drink . . . Now, you pretend you’re a gentleman and insist 
that I have a drink and I’ll give you a demonstration. I 
need practice anyhow.” 

Len Hardesty took a glass from the tray Hilda had 
placed on the coffee table, put in liquor and water. He 
74 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


walked slowly toward her. ‘T only hope you do not change 
your mind and accept this at my insistence, for I need it 
myself. More pit of the stomach business. . . . Oh, my dear 
Miss Adele, do have a drink ! Oh, you must have a drink ! 
Come on, be a sport, just one now ! Pick you up no end.’' 

Adele leaned forward, gazed intently, deliriously, into 
his eyes and then gave the lovely blonde head a very de- 
cided, very becoming little shake. ‘‘Oh, no,” she said purr- 
ingly. “No indeed, thanks. I wouldn’t dare ! I’m — ^having 
entirely too much stimulant as it is.” And the blue eyes 
clung to his. 

Len Hardesty set the glass on a small table with a re- 
sounding plunk. He turned to Olympia. 

“Ollie, I apologize,” he said. “I didn’t think you had it 
in you.” 

“Oh, I just gave her a rough general outline,” said 
Ol3mipia. “I must admit that she added a good deal of em- 
bellishment. Take your drink, Len. You’re going to need 
it. I may as well show you the rest. . . . Hilda, ask the 
young ladies to come in and squelch this worm.” 

Len drained the glass. “I’ll have another, thanks.” He 
poured for himself, slowly. “When I think that I’m going 
to spend the next eight months pitting my brats against 
your beauty — ” 

“Oh, come now, Len, I’m not as good-looking as all 
that,” said Aunt Olympia. 

“Ollie, I didn’t even see you. I never expect to see you 
again. I’m not sure I’ll ever see anything but — ^the auto- 
maton there. There seems to be a sort of bright light — an 
aura, you might say — around that pit we mentioned — ” 

Hilda coughed faintly in the doorway. 


75 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


‘‘She thinks she’s the Senator,” said Olympia in a large 
whisper. 

“Miss Helen is waiting for a long-distance telephone 
from Iowa — ” 

“Long distance! From Iowa?” ejaculated Aunt 
Olympia. “Why, who’s there to talk to in Iowa, with 
Congress in session?” 

“It might be something about a school,” said Adele, 
swiftly. 

“Or — ^you don’t suppose she could have forgotten to — 
pay that grocery bill?” said Aunt Olympia. “From what 
I saw of that delivery boy, he’s just the type to buy a new 
necktie and put on his gloves and follow a bill clear to 
Washington.” 

Hilda coughed again. “And Miss Limpy is having a 
conference.” 

“Having a conference? Miss Limpy? What are you 
talking about? Is the Senator home?” 

“No, ma’am. It’s with a — a policeman. Miss Limpy 
accidentally or something threw her arithmetic — ” 

“Trigonometry,” corrected Adele, loyally. 

“Yes’m. Out the window and hit the policeman on the 
head, and he’s having a conference about it.” 

“Well, don’t let him in here,” said Aunt Olympia de- 
cidedly. “We’ve worms enough in here. Miss Limpy can 
handle him herself. Tell her to come in when he goes.” 

Len Hardesty shook an accusing finger at Aunt Olym- 
pia. “You staged this, Ollie. You staged this whole scene^ 
You knew I was coming. You’ve been listening at key- 
holes and pursuing me with detectives and you knew I was 
76 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


headed here and you staged this. Hitting a policeman on 
the dome with a trigonometry ! So that’s the kind of cam- 
paign we’re up against, eh ?” 

“No,” said Aunt Olympia honestly. “I’m sorry, but I 
can’t hog the credit. It never entered my head. It’s good, 
Len. I admit it’s good. But Limpy thought it up herself.” 

Len groaned. 

“But just to cheer you up, Len, I will admit that Adele 
is far the best-looking. The others are all right — in some 
ways even better. I don’t believe Adele would ever have 
thought of bashing a policeman with a trigonometry. But 
she got most of the looks.” 

“You’re telling me that?” he demanded bitterly. “I’m 
no fool. I know there’s a limit on that sort of thing. . . . 
But if that kid thought of attacking a policeman — out of 
her own head — she’s dangerous. They’re all dangerous. 
You’re dangerous.” 

“Oh, we just try to hold our own,” said Aunt Olympia 
seraphically. 

Limpy bobbed brightly in at that point. She looked slight 
and small in comparison with Adele’s tallness and Olym- 
pia’s general largeness. She began to speak almost before 
she was visible. But Len Hardesty, a good reporter, did not 
overlook that even before she spoke, the fleetingest, most 
trusting of glances flashed between the two girls — question 
and answer in one. “Oh, Aunt Olympia,” began Limpy, 
“what’s a logarithm ?” 

Aunt Olympia drew herself up and blinked uncertainly. 

Adele spoke quickly. “If you find out, darling, I wish 
you’d tell me. I studied them for a year and got a C plus, 

77 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


but nobody ever thought to tell me what they really are.” 

‘‘What in the world are you talking about ?” demanded 
Aunt Olympia. 

“Logarithms,” said Limpy. “Logarithms. I can spell 
them but I can’t imagine what they are.” 

“Ask him,” said Olympia neatly. “He’s a newspaper- 
man. He knows everything. Just ask him what is a loga- 
rithm ?” 

Limpy turned hopefully to Len Hardesty. 

“Logarithm !” he said resentfully. “What do you mean, 
logarithm? That was no logarithm! That was a plain 
American policeman you bashed on the dome.” 

“Yes, how about that policeman, Limpy?” asked Aunt 
Olympia, suddenly remembering the issue. 

“Oh, that ! That was the merest accident. . . . Unless,” 
Limpy frowned, and pursed up her lips, “unless, there was 
something sinister beneath it ! I confess, I was a little sus- 
picious, for why should he be prowling about under Uncle 
Lancy’s windows in election year? I asked if he was a 
special policeman or anything — I didn’t want to come right 
out and ask if he had been hired by the Opposition. But 
he said no, he was just regular. — It was too bad, wasn’t 
it?” 

“How did it happen, Limpy?” asked Adele helpfully, 
now that the first explosive moment had been safely 
bridged. 

“Oh, I was a bit confused about those logarithms — I 
don’t care for them at all. Auntie, and if you don’t mind 
I’d really rather study something else, like French drama 
or modern novels. I looked out at the trees — and all of a 
sudden it came to me in a sort of flash that there was a 
78 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


kind of a connection there — sort of a relativity — ^trees and 
logarithms — or logs, for short. They seemed to go to- 
gether. And first thing I knew the book was flying right 
out the window among the trees and I do think it was very 
suspicious that a policeman should be lurking down there. 
They went together — ^trees, and logs-for-short — ^but the 
policeman just doesn’t fit in.” 

‘‘Unless he was a blockhead to begin with,” said Adele. 

“And perhaps he had a chip on his shoulder,” added 
Len Hardesty. 

“Well, he seemed to have when he first came in. But he 
went away very good-naturedly. I gave him five dollars — 
out of your pocketbook, Adele ; I’m low this week. And he 
left his regards for the Senator. I didn’t do it as a bribe, of 
course, but I didn’t want to — embarrass dear Uncle Lancy 
in election year.” 

“Uncle Lancy !” said Len Hardesty bitterly. “So that’s 
the game, eh ? Uncle Lancy 1 Who thought that up ? Why 
not Uncle Sloppy? Why not Uncle Del? Oh, no, it had to 
be Uncle Lancy ! That’s for the Irish vote, Olympia Slop, 
and you can’t deny it ! We’re eaten up alive with the Irish 
in our state. But you don’t get away with it, Ollie! Not 
with me handling the Opposition. I’ll tear your family tree 
limb from limb. I’ll hack it to its deepest roots. Alenqon 
Delaporte Slopshire ! French to the core. Who ever heard 
of an Irish Alenqon? Who ever heard of an Irish Dela- 
porte ?” 

“And who ever heard of a French Shire? All the shires 
are British. Devonshire, Lancastershire, Leicestershire — ” 

“English !” he interposed rudely. “The shires are Eng- 
lish and aristocratic English, too 1” 


79 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


‘‘How about Worcestershire?’’ asked Limpy helpfully. 
“Is that Irish?” 

“The only Irish thing in your name is Slop,” said Len 
Hardesty grimly. “And I daresay the French have some 
of it, too Uncle Lancy ! It’s not only French, it’s aristo- 

cratic and I can prove it. ... I never suspected we were in 
for this kind of a campaign!” 

“It’s the Senator,” interrupted Hilda moodily. 

Olympia headed for the hall telephone on a nervous 
trot. That dour “It’s the Senator” always took her on the 
run, in a tremor for some pet bill. Limpy occupied herself 
cheerfully with the cakes and nuts on the tray. 

Len Hardesty got up suddenly and went over and stood 
beside Adele, now seated in a big chair with the blue cur- 
tains for flattering background. She looked up with a slight 
smile and took a sip of her lemonade. She looked up again. 
This time, the smile melted away on her lips and suddenly 
they were looking into each other’s eyes, deeply, very 
soberly. Len shook his head with sudden impatience. 
Something must be said. 

“Do you like Washington?” he asked gravely, though 
the trite query struck him as a good deal of an anticlimax, 
after meeting her eyes. 

“I do today,” she said. 

“Does the old girl give you all your lines?” he asked 
moodily. 

“Not that one. That was original.” 

“That’s something. . . . Did you mean it?” 

“Yes,” she said, with honest brevity. 

“Well, it’s a good thing. To tell the truth, you’re going 
to be seeing a good deal of me from this on — ” 

80 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


‘‘Oh, no, weVe not,” interrupted Olympia, bounding 
back. “The only way we’re going to be seeing anything of 
you is at the other end of a good sharp stiletto. If there’s 
any tampering with my campaign material I’ll report it to 
some committee on something.” 

“I can’t stay for dinner tonight,” he said, “though it’s 
nice of you to ask me. I have another engagement. I can 
come back about nine though, since you insist, and — talk 
things over with Sloppy and sort of check up on the cam- 
paign. And how about my dropping in for luncheon 
around one-thirty tomorrow ? I can take the whole after- 
noon off — if I don’t get caught — and give the girls a good 
sales talk.” 

“We’re going to be out! We’re going to be out from 
right now till after the election,” said Aunt Olympia rudely. 

“See you tonight about nine. Thanks, Ollie. Sweet of 
you to ask me. . . . Uncle Lancy ! My word I” 

“We’re virtually out now,” said Aunt Olympia. 

“What do you think, Limpy?” said Adele suddenly. 
“Are they arriving at an armistice, or is this a lull before 
they tear each other limb from limb?” 

“I’m expecting blows at any minute,” said Limpy. 
“That’s what I’m waiting for. Otherwise I’d be right back 
with my logarithms.” 

“Blows! Blows between Ollie and me?” He sat on the 
arm of her chair and put his arm around her. “Why, Ollie 
and I are mad about each other. It’s my one regret that 
Sloppy saw her first. Why, I’d lie down in the dirt and let 
her walk right over me — though I’d be a good deal flat- 
tened in the process. And she’d do the same for me, too !” 

“Sure I would,” said Aunt Olympia, with a beaming 

81 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


smile. She patted his hand affectionately. “You snake-in- 
the-grass !’’ 

“Now, there’s one thing I want to warn you about,” Len 
said, squeezing Olympia’s shoulder and looking at Adele. 
“Your Aunt Ollie is a perfect babe in the woods when it 
comes to men. She thinks any consistently-voting Demo- 
crat can be trusted. But we newspapermen know that hardly 
anybody, except ourselves, is to be trusted with a pretty 
woman. Out of the depths of bitter experience, I warn 
you. Don’t go out with any congressmen. Don’t sit next 
to them at table if you can avoid it. . . . I’d better bring you 
some mudguards 1 What size mudguard do you wear ? . . . 
Don’t come in contact with foreign diplomats. Stay away 
from embassies. Shun college boys. In short, the safest 
thing for you to do is to sit right there in front of that 
very becoming curtain and let me bring you the news. . . . 
As for you,” he turned suddenly to Limpy, “it was a good 
act, smart as the dickens. But you should have started on 
a lower scale and worked up to a climax. It’s going to be 
mighty hard to work up from bashing a policeman. You 
should have saved that for the night before election. It 
was good, it was darned good. But poor timing. I’ll give 
you pointers. . . . Well, good-by, Ollie. Think over my 
proposition about swapping material! I’ll throw in two 
purges and a blessing !” 


82 


Chapter IV 


Never in her life had Aunt Olympia experienced such 
satisfying happiness. The girls, with their gentle youth, 
made a perfect foil for her rugged ruddiness, her biting 
humor. Their appreciative laughter spurred her to gusty 
heights never before attained. She had not realized how 
large a part the audience plays in the success of theatrical 
endeavor. She could hardly let them out of her sight long 
enough to get their proper sleep and begrudged Limpy 
every minute spent on “those lousy logarithms.’’ 

So the girls were a little disconcerted one day when she 
went about the apartment wrapped in a brooding air of 
detachment, full lips compressed, left eyelid ominously 
lowered; seeming not to hear their light talk, and, still 
more surprisingly, adding no enlivening embellishments of 
her own. They watched her uneasily. 

“Are you sick. Aunt Olympia?” Helen finally asked. 

“No,” she said abruptly. “I’m working my subcon- 
scious.” 

The girls smiled faintly. 

“Don’t overtax it,” said Adele. “I understand it’s 
rather delicate.” 

“And be careful it doesn’t turn and begin working you,” 
added Limpy. 

Aunt Olympia did not hear them. 

That night she addressed the Senator mildly. 


83 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


“Del, I want to ask your advice/’ 

The Senator coughed deprecatingly and his glance at the 
girls was apologetic. 

“What do you think we ought to do about these girls ?” 
she demanded. 

That shocked the Senator into immediate coherence. 
“Do about them !” he ejaculated. “Do nothing about them 1 
Leave them alone ! They’re doing all right for themselves.” 

“Referring to their social life,” Olympia continued. 
“Should we bring them out or keep them in seclusion?” 

The Senator wiped his glasses. Then he smiled. “My 
dear, living up to my established reputation as a philan- 
thropic and public-spirited American, I say, bring them 
out. Give the world a treat ! The world needs a treat and 
I am not one who believes that the blessed should be nig- 
gardly with their treasures.” 

Olympia frowned. “Thinking of the campaign,” she 
said significantly. “Which would have more telling effect 
on the campaign ; to let them go out, decorously of course, 
most decorously, or keep them in modest retirement until 
we go home ? If I know our constituents, and I think I do, 
it would flatter them no end to get the idea that while we 
were obliged to safeguard and shelter these children from 
the insidious snares of Washington, we realize that in our 
home — ^among our friends — our constituents — ^they are 
safe.” 

The Senator considered this, frowningly. He had not 
yet worked up any campaign spirit himself, with Congress 
in no mood for adjournment. His troubled eyes circled the 
attentive subject of the discussion and the sight led him to 
instant conclusion. 

84 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


“No use to punish the girls for the sake of a few votes, 
in my opinion. Let them do as they please.” 

Olympia never paid any attention to what he said. “We 
could go right ahead — ^building them up — ^whetting public 
interest — ^putting out just the right photos — and still hold 
them aloof. It would delight the voters ; and why not ? It 
is a definite compliment. But I don’t want to bore the 
girls.” 

“Aunt Olympia,” Helen broke in gently, “if you don’t 
mind, I’d really like to go around as much as I can. I do 
not mean to gay, social things. I do not want to seem dis- 
respectful or lacking in feeling, but since I shall be with 
you only this one season, I feel I ought to learn as much as 
I can, get as much experience as possible. I’d like to learn 
how things run, how Congress works, all the things that 
go to make Washington the heart of the nation.” 

Aunt Olympia agreed with her heartily. She invariably 
agreed with the girls, even if she flatly flouted her agree- 
ment in the next breath. She was determined to be on good 
terms with them at all cost and she felt that an initial agree- 
ment took the edge off what followed. 

“Perfectly right, my dear, perfectly sound. So you 
should. Washington is an education, a higher — ^and, in 
some ways, a lower — education. It is your civic duty to 
learn all you can. The life here will be valuable experience 
for you in the future whether you teach school — or go into 
politics — or merely sell — say, groceries.” 

A swift glance flickered among the girls. 

“I don’t see that politics enters into selling groceries,” 
said Uncle Lancy. “Unless you refer to putting the bad 
fruit at the bottom of the basket.” 


85 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


Aunt Olympia gave him a straight, hard look. Already 
the girls knew that look. They called it her shut-upping 
look. “Aunt Olympia gave me her shut-upping look, and I 
never opened my mouth,” they would say to one another. 
Uncle Lancy had no name for it but he understood it. 

“A thorough education,” he remarked safely, dropping 
groceries. “You can come about with me, Helen. You can 
sit in my committee meetings. Some of them are merely 
good antidotes for insomnia, but, on the other hand, some 
of them are very interesting. The munitions committee 
got into a fight every time it met. You’d have enjoyed 
that, but unfortunately it wound up its work and quit.” 

“After all,” went on Aunt Olympia musingly, “it does 
impress homey hicks to know that one has been received 
in Washington. But we’ll be careful. We’ll discriminate.” 

“Sure, that’s the idea,” corroborated the Senator. “Dis- 
criminate. Take them only to things that are good fun — 
and hold them in seclusion from the bores.” 

“I’ll start off with a luncheon, exclusive, very small. 
Then a large tea — not too large. . . . It’s too bad about Len 
Hardesty; he’s a lot of help at that sort of thing. ... Yes, 
Helen, you’re right. We’ll bring you and Adele out — in a 
decorous way — and seclude Limpy.” 

“Aw, Uncle Lancy !” wailed Limpy. 

The Senator rose to her appeal. “Stuff and nonsense,” 
he said. “What’s the matter with Limpy ? Limpy can take 
care of herself. Let her have a good time.” 

“Del, you silly dunce, that child — ” 

“Seventeen, Auntie darling!” Limpy reminded her. 
“And seventeen is very, very close to eighteen.” 

“Sixteen,” corrected Adele determinedly. 

86 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


*TIus. Large plus, small minus/’ 

“Let ’em have as much fun as they can, that’s my idea,” 
said Uncle Lancy loyally. 

“I don’t want to have fun,” disclaimed Helen promptly. 
“I just want to learn as much as I can ; about politics and 
government, particularly; from the ground up. I don’t 
want gay society — ” 

“You want official things,” said Aunt Olympia. “Yes, 
you’re right. There’s nothing gay about them. Well, we 
have a stack of invitations. We’ll go through them to- 
morrow and you can pick out what you like. And I’ll plan 
the luncheon.” She frowned thoughtfully for a while, left 
eye invisible. “You know, Del,” she said suddenly, “I’m 
not at all sure but Adele could do a damn sight worse.” 

The Senator did not pause to cough. “Do worse !” he 
ejaculated. “I should say she could do worse. I don’t see 
how she could very well do any better myself. She’s just 
about perfect, in my opinion. They all are. In fact, they 
are perfect.” 

Adele laughed. “It has a faint resemblance to a compli- 
ment, Auntie,” she said. “But it’s a bit too foggy for my 
clouded intelligence. Do worse than what ?” 

“Than Len Hardesty. He’s smart. He’s got what an 
election takes. And the Senator’ll be up again in ’44.” 

The Senator coughed deprecatingly. “She’s joking, my 
dear. This is pre-election stuff. Before election day, she’ll 
be telling me, with forceful, if inelegant, expletives, that if 
I ever run for anything again she’ll divorce, and probably 
de-neck, me. This is before-the-campaign stuff.” 

“My very words,” said Aunt Olympia complacently. 

“I forgot my quotes,” admitted Unde Lancy. 


87 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


''What a cocky little fool I was. Brick,” Helen wrote 
home to Iowa, "to think I cduld learn this racket in one 
year. Aunt Olympia’s been in it right from the cradle — or 
at least from the marriage altar — and she says it’s still so 
much haywire to her. It seems to he mostly luck and 'get- 
ting the breaks,’ and of course, seizing Opportunity before 
the Opposition gets hold of it. Aunt Olympia says if she 
didn’t watch every breath the Senator draws, he’d get him- 
self impeached before breakfast. But I cm learning a little, 
I think. 

"There’s one thing I’ve learned, and this is important. 
We’ve got to get over that provincial feeling that political 
opponents are social lepers, to be snubbed and ostracised 
and passed by on the other side. Aunt Olympia says it is a 
sign of superiority to hobnob with the Opposition — except 
at the polls, of course. She says it is only little fry who 
carry political animosities further than the Congressional 
Record. And I must say, she lives up to her philosophy. 
I’ve met quite a number of Republican wives and they are 
very nice to me and ask me to their meetings and teas, and 
Aunt Olympia encourages me to go. Sometimes she goes 
with me. 

"Really, Brick, they are amazing. Uncle Lancy and she. 
T ake Len Hardesty for instance. He is here half the time, 
mooning over Adele mostly, but always showing up at the 
dinner table and the cocktail tray. He even calls up and 
tells her what to have or not to have. 'No sea food, on your 
life,’ he said last night. 'I’ve had two lobsters, three shrimps 
d la creole, one fish- fry and four sea-food platters this week 
and I’m just about fished up.’ It was Friday, too, but 
Aunt Olympia canceled the fish order and got steak. 

88 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


*^And last week who should breeze in unexpectedly hut 
Brother Wilkie, the Governor, running against Uncle 
Lancy. He 'phoned and Auntie asked him to dinner and 
he came. They were lovely to him and Aunt Olympia 
asked him to ask the blessing — winking at Limpy down the 
table — so we could hardly keep from laughing. Len Hard- 
esty bobbed in at the last moment and that was very amus- 
ing. He didn't know the Governor was in town and Len 
himself was supposed to be working like a dog up home. 
They were all quite gay about it. The Governor teased him 
a lot. He said to Uncle Lancy: 

'Remember the campaign two years ago, when he had 
such a crush on that pretty manicurist and had to have his 
nails done four times a week?' 

"Len stretched his hands across the table to A dele and 
said, 'You can tear every nail of them out by the roots, if 
you want to.' Adele is getting — not blase. Brick — but 
rather — well, sophisticated, in a nice way. She examined 
his fingers critically and said, 'Well, I'm no manicurist, 
Len, but definitely I should say a little soap and water 
wouldn't do them any harm.' 

"She wouldn't have done that six months ago. She 
would have blushed and dropped his hand like a fishing 
worm. .. .You see, we are learning a little." 

Aunt Olympia was far deeper in the campaign than 
either the girls or the Senator realized. She spent two 
hours every morning carefully conning the important 
dailies from home and making notes of things to be at- 
tended to; cards of congratulation from herself and the 
Senator to everyone having babies or getting married; 

89 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


condolences for illness and death; approval of the activi- 
ties of clubs and church organizations, with pertinent sug- 
gestions and offering co-operation ; and she painstakingly, 
with well-concealed bitterness, received every constituent 
who happened to be in Washington and telephoned or 
called. 

“That woman!’’ she boomed acridly, as one caller de- 
parted, carrying an autographed photograph of the Sen- 
ator and a neat box of teacakes for “the little cherubs at 
home.” “She’s been trying to horn in here for six years! 
Came on purpose, of course, because it’s election year and 
all termites are admitted.” 

By the first of April Olympia had completed plans for the 
campaign entourage ; deciding on a motor trailer to insure 
the domesticity of the family, with beds, kitchen and cozy 
dinette. 

“We won’t have to eat there much,” she assured the girls 
kindly. “Just enough to get good photos of how domestic 
and homey we are, with you girls tripping prettily around 
at your work. We’ll have Hilda send us a crate of cooked 
food every day.” 

“Doesn’t she campaign with us?” 

“Oh, no! Except in the Scandinavian districts, where 
she sits at the table with us. ... Not in the rest of the state. 
The average voter thinks if a senator can afford a maid he’s 
getting too much money.” 

There would be a sound truck for the Senator’s speeches 
and in addition to their own big car, a couple of secondhand 
Fords for the staff, visiting reporters, et al. She fretted a 
good deal over the sound truck, having ideas of her own 
on that important matter. It must have microphones both 
90 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


inside and on the driver’s seat : on the driver’s seat to show 
the Senator off in good weather, and inside ‘Tor rain ; the 
Senator catches cold if he gets wet.” It must be equipped 
with cabinets, shelves and drawers to carry necessary pa- 
pers and books of reference, including a dictionary and a 
Bible, and must provide space for one or preferably two 
cots, to constitute sleeping quarters for the chauffeurs. 

After consulting and personally inspecting every make 
of trailer and sound truck on the market, she decided to 
buy — from some home dealer, of course — old, run-down, 
antiquated cars that could be rebuilt. 

“The shabbier the better — on the outside,” she explained 
to the girls. “To take some of the gravel off that damn 

‘Alengon’ ... New cars look royalistic But don’t worry. 

We’ll have the best and most modern engines installed 
under the rusty hoods; like Uncle Joe Cannon, with silk 
underwear under his homey homespun. We’ll have them 
rebuilt from the tires up — on the inside. Fortunately, the 
works don’t show.” 

“Evidently experience is like butter and doesn’t suit the 
works,” said Limpy. 

“Not even the best experience really suits an auto’s 
works,” added Adele. 

Aunt Olympia knew her Congressional Record better 
than her Alice in Wonderland. She went straight back to 
the campaign. 

She sent up to Maysville, her home town and the state 
capital, for a motor dealer and had him come to Washing- 
ton — at the Senator’s expense — to get her ideas. She had 
drawn rough drafts of what she desired, both in trailer and 
trunk, but the expert did not comprehend them readily. 

91 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


“Why, it’s as simple as a — a logarithm,” she said irri- 
tably. “For the sound truck we want a secondhand, run- 
down delivery wagon, an enclosed one, of course. Put in 
the best works you can get hold of. Get a good sound man 
to wire it, with mikes on the driver’s seat as well as inside. 
Build cabinets of shelves and drawers along the inside to 
put papers and books in. And leave room for a good easy 
chair for the Senator, because his feet swell before the end 
of the campaign. Isn’t that simple enough ?” 

“It would be cheaper to buy a secondhand station wag- 
on,” the expert said helpfully. “I can get you a first-class 
station wagon for — ” 

“I don’t want a station wagon,” roared Aunt Olympia. 
“I’ve got a station wagon and I’m not going to use it. . . . 
Station wagons are royalistic,” she confided to the listening 
girls. 

“How you going to ventilate this delivery wagon? 
They’ve got no ventilation.” 

“Oh! That’s so.” Then Olympia brightened. “Now, I 
tell you what to do. You put little long narrow windows 
all around the truck clear up at the top. That way, the 
Senator can get ventilation from above without sitting in 
a draft. He gets pretty hot over some of his campaign 
speeches and I don’t want him coming down with pneu- 
monia.” 

“It’ll cost like the dickens,” he reminded her. 

“For the good of his country, the Senator will bear the 
expense,” she said with dignity. 

“What color you want this painted?” 

“I don’t want it painted,” she said exasperatedly. “No 
paint ! I want rust and mud and scratches and dents, but 
92 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


no paint. If it’s painted when you get it, you set fire to it 
or soak it in acid. Is that clear?” 

The month of April she devoted pretty largely to plan- 
ning the girls’ campaign wardrobes. On these, she spared 
neither time, talent nor expense. She had the best dress- 
makers and designers in Washington at work. There were 
graceful, girlish dresses for afternoon and for dinner; 
there were sport clothes, bathing suits, riding costumes; 
there were fetching little costumes of finest gingham for 
their dainty housework about the trailer. Aunt Olympia 
persistently referred to these as their ‘‘cottons.” 

“Why cotton. Auntie?” demanded Limpy. “We don’t 
raise cotton up there, do we?” 

“No, darling,” said Aunt Olympia, beaming approval 
for her acumen. “We don’t raise cotton, but we have nine- 
teen large cotton mills and they employ at least ten thousand 
constituents.” 

Although all their dresses were what Aunt Olympia 
called “vote-getters” to the last ribbon and the smallest 
button, she reserved her most passionate interest for what 
she called their “wind-up ensembles.” 

“Wind-up ensembles !” gasped Limpy. “Do we do it in 
public. Auntie ? If you mean wind ourselves up and unwrap 
in public like a strip tease — ^well, really, I think fans are 
more modest.” 

Aunt Olympia’s ready laughter boomed out. “Wind up 
the campaign,” she explained succinctly. “The Senator 
winds up with a huge rally. That’s the big night. You 
catch a lot of voters — floaters, they are — if you handle the 
wind-up right. Your wind-up costumes are to be chef 
d' oeuvres; absolutely chef d'oeuvres/' 


93 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


“It can’t be the same as hors d'couvres/' Limpy assured 
her sisters. “Not even Aunt Olympia would expect them to 
eat us.” 

“I wouldn’t trust Len Hardesty,” said Aunt Olympia. 
“Not if Adele looks as well as I expect. . . . Let me see, that 
will be the first week of November. Fall dresses. Felt hats. 
Wide, sweeping black for Helen with little white doodads. 
Droopy white for Limpy with long black streamers.” 

“I suppose I’m to go bareheaded,” said Adele. 

“No, no, darling! Not quite. Teeny black and white 
something or other, with a bit of a veil and my only regret 
is that Len Hardesty won’t be there to see it. He’d strangle 
the brats with his bare hands.” 

She sent for the Capitol physician. 

“Doctor, I hate to bother you — ^knowing how busy 
you are keeping your doddering charges on their feet — 
or at least upright in their chairs. But — such an emer- 
gency !” 

“It’s a pleasure, I assure you,” he said politely. “No- 
body sick, I hope.” 

“No! And nobody’s going to be if I can help it! You 
see. Doctor, maybe you’ve heard — ^we have our three little 
nieces with us this summer. And it’s election year — I’m 
sure you’ve heard that ! — ^and the Senator is up. So he’s 
got to campaign and we can’t leave those children at home 
alone so there’s nothing for it but to drag them along with 
us. Of course. I’ll do my best, but I want to be prepared 
for any emergency. I want you to order me a complete 
set of campaign emergency first-aid equipment — to take 
care of everything from a fever blister to a snake bite. 
Naturally I want them to look their best.” 

94 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


The surprised doctor began immediately trying to think 
of what would be required in a campaign emergency. 

‘T know what’s needed !” said Olympia grimly. “It’s a 
big overdose of sleeping tablets to carry you through the 
speeches straight to the polls. But that isn’t what I have in 
mind. We’ll be roughing it in a rattletrap old trailer and — 
anything may happen ; poison ivy — most appropriate to a 
campaign, I must say — and scratches from blackberry 
bushes. . . . Oh, no the blackberries will be gone then ; well, 
there’ll be bruises and headaches — plenty of headaches — 
and sore throats and shock and overeating — don’t forget 
the Senator’s weak stomach — and a lotion for sore feet — 
don’t forget his feet — and the best of everything. Doctor ! 
The best of everything!” 

Helen did not follow the preliminary campaign activities 
as closely as her sisters. Studying the political racket kept 
her fairly busy. She read the Congressional Record con- 
scientiously, if boredly. She spent hours visiting the Sen- 
ator’s committees and trying to make heads and tails of 
things which didn’t make sense to an average intelligence 
like hers. She hung over the gallery of the House as if she 
had become a fixture there. 

rather hurts Uncle Lancy's feelings” she wrote Brick, 
^'because I spend so much time in the House when I could 
he gazing at him in the Senate, and I can't explain that I 
am taking notes on things for you. It's really embarrassing 
when we go to the Senate. Uncle Lcmcy beams all over and 
wipes his glasses and tiptoes around pointing us out to his 
friends and they look up and how and people stare at us. 

**But I must say, Brick, that on the whole I think our 

95 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


Republicans look a lot more — well, more upstanding — and 
wear their clothes better than most of the Democrats. Aunt 
Olympia says thafs because they have more stomach. 'It 
takes a lot of stomach to do justice to a good tailor f she 
says. 'Republicans are noted for their stomach. So they 
should be! They've had to stomach plenty these last few 
years.' 

"Really, Brick, I hate to say it, but some of the con- 
gressmen look quite common. Almost vulgar. The way 
they sprawl around in their seats and chew things and mess 
up their hair! If they could hear the remarks passed about 
them in the galleries they would sit up and try to look like 
gentlemen, at least. Visitors to the Senate galleries always 
run through the chart to find their senators, or ask the 
guides to point them out, and they look at them so eagerly 
and are so embarrassed when they look messy. They try to 
apologize to their friends and say that usually he is quite 
dressy; he must be tired out, perhaps up all night working 
at something. 

"Everyone from Iowa is very nice to me, though nearly 
all Democrats, of course. And no one seems to realize there 
may be an upset out there in the fall election. The Gillettes 
are sweet to me; they say, after all, the state comes before 
the party. Our neighbors from South Dakota are a great 
comfort to me. Case (R. So. Dak.) as the papers refer to 
him. This is his first term in Congress, and since we are 
very friendly, Mrs. Case has been giving me a lot of 
pointers. 

"She said the first large tea she went to, she was shocked 
to see that all the eastern wives kept their gloves on and the 
western wives took theirs off. So, not to let the East get 
96 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


ahead of us, the next time, she kept hers on. But that time 
everybody. East and West, removed them. So she decided 
hereafter to do as she pleases; if her hands are hot, or the 
food is sticky, shell take them off; and if she has broken a 
finger nail and hasn't had time for a manicure, she'll keep 
them on. 

*^She said^her worst trouble the first year was distin- 
guishing between the wives. She said every one she met she 
was determined to remember, and the next one she met was 
so like her she couldn't tell them apart. She says the dis- 
concerting thing is that all congressmen's wives look alike; 
they wear the same type of slick black dress, the same small 
black hats with little veils, and say the very same things. 
She thinks they even use the same make-up. 

told her about you and she thinks it's lovely. She says 
if you need help, just call on them. 

^7 remarked one night to Aunt Olympia that it seemed 
strange that so many of the active church people — at least 
in the north — seem to be Republicans, and she said, 'It's 
not a bit strange! Religious people are brought up on the 
idea that the only way to be sure of going to Heaven when 
they die is to be charitable and philanthropic to the poor and 
oppressed. And if we Democrats succeed in our plan to 
give justice to all, there will be no poor and oppressed for 
them to be charitable to, and then how will they ever get to 
Heaven?' We thought that was very funny but Uncle 
Lancy said she was only joking. 

"Doesn't it seem strange. Brick, that though we are 
here, right in the heart of the nation, everything that hap- 
pens is so trivial and unimportant? Almost like church af- 
fairs at home. Little things happen, of course, but they 

97 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


are only little things. It is disappointing. Aunt Olympia says 
Td he surprised if I realized the bigness that underlies the 
surface of these little things. She says it's like an iceberg, 
with only one-ninth of it showing. But I think really im- 
portant things should look and sound important; and noth- 
ing does." 

Aunt Olympia at last reached a stage of her preparations 
where she felt impelled to ask the Senator’s advice. 

“Del, how about a publicity man for our campaign?” 

“Why, we’re going to have Dave Cooper. He’s the best 
we can get, since Len’s tied up. I’ve already spoken to him 
about it. He’s working on it now.” 

“Yes, of course, for you,” she said significantly. “But 
how about the girls here?” 

The Senator wisely said nothing, but the girls rose to it. 

“For us!” 

“We’ve had enough publicity to last us a lifetime!” 

“Heavens, Auntie, do we rate a publicity man?” 

“Oh, he’ll only be an assistant to Dave Cooper, but we’ll 
need someone to handle our end of it. Dave’ll be pretty 
busy. . . . We need someone more sentimental. For sob 
stuff. Heart interest. Human appeal. Let me see — um — 
ah ! Del — ^what would you think of — ^well, what would you 
think of — say — someone like — Cecil Dodd?” 

The Senator came to with a snap. “Cecil Dodd! . . . 
Cecil Dodd, my dear !” The Senator put on an extra pair of 
glasses to regard her more severely. “Why, Ollie, Cecil 
Dodd doesn’t know the first thing about politics! He’d 
never get to first base. In fact, he’d never even get to bat.. 
He’s never been in a campaign in his life. Cecil Dodd — 
98 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


well, Cecil Dodd is what I call a sofa-sitter. But Fve heard 
it expressed more forcibly and perhaps with more truth.” 

‘‘Oh, he's not so dumb,” Olympia rose to the argument. 
“He's chock-full of human appeal; full of adjectives ; why, 
he knows adjectives I've never even heard of ! He's the 
loudest exponent of youth and beauty in Washington. Do 
you remember those articles he wrote when Sissy Graves 
was killed in an airplane accident? A dozen people were 
killed — and some of them important — ^but he wrote about 
Sissy with so much heart appeal that everybody forgot all 
about the rest of them and made it her exclusive fatality. I 
know it brought tears to my eyes.” 

“I don't go in for tears in a campaign,” he said, more on 
the defensive than the girls had ever seen him. “There isn't 
going to be anything milksop about this campaign. It's 
going to be muddy.” 

“He's a fine dancer ; he rides horseback and plays tennis 
and golf and has taken prizes for swimming and diving. 
Del, try to forget your personal, political aspirations for 
once in your life, and think of these poor dear children! 
Don't you want them to have any amusement ? Do you ex- 
pect them to listen to you make speeches and shake hands 
for six months with no exercise, no fresh air and no — no 
young companionship?” 

This put a different light on the matter. The Senator 
took off both pairs of glasses and set to wiping one. “That's 
so,” he assented. “I didn't mean to be selfish, my dear. 
The children come first, of course. . . . But I don't suppose 
we can get him. I don't think he could tear himself away 
from the sofas long enough.” 

“We can get him,” said Olympia. “I've already spoken 

99 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


to him — just tentatively, you understand; asking -why he 
didn’t get into the political end of it and he said he wanted 
to but never got the breaks. We can get him.” A happy 
smile rosied her face. “Wait till Len Hardesty hears 
this !” 

Len Hardesty was not long hearing it. He dropped in 
on them the next night. 

“Had to fly down,” he said cheerfully. “Got to fly back, 
too. The Governor’s going tightwad on me ; church crop- 
ping out in him, I suppose. He asks me every day now 
whether I’m working the state or the District of Colum- 
bia. Funny thing about preachers. They only work Sun- 
days themselves but see no reason why other people 
shouldn’t work — especially for them — day in, day out, 
week after week, month upon month, here a little and there 
a little.” 

“I’m glad you came, Len,” said Olympia heartily, almost 
fondly. “I want to ask your advice about something.” 

A guarded expression settled over his face. “Oh, you do 
eh ? Then you’re up to something I’m against.” He braced 
himself to receive it. “All right. Let’s have it. It’s dead 
wrong and you know it.” 

Olympia laughed happily. “Oh, it’s really nothing or I 
shouldn’t be asking your advice. It’s a mere detail. It’s 
about a publicity man for the campaign. You know those 
publicity gangsters better than we do.” 

Len, who had thought he was prepared for anything, 
was genuinely surprised. 

“Publicity man ! Why, you dumb cluck, aren’t you hav- 
ing Dave Cooper? If you’re not, you’d better get him and 
get him quick. He’s tops.” 

100 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


“Don’t be silly, Len. Of course we’re having him. . . . 
For the Senator. . . . But we’ve got to have an assistant. 
You see, there’s going to be quite a cavalcade of us — ^what 
with the trailer and the tent and the sound truck and three 
cars. We don’t want anybody to work day and night for 
us. We’re not like some candidates, who expect a poor 
publicity man to live, move and have his being with seven 
brats and a trumpeting beldame.” 

“I smell a rat,” said Len Hardesty. “You never gave 
me an assistant.” 

“But we’re a much larger party this year, you silly 
dunce. ... No, definitely, I am for you laboring classes and 
I will not have poor old Dave imposed on and worked to 
death, not even for the Senator. But we’ll expect his as- 
sistant chiefly to handle our end of it, mine and the girls’, 
when the Senator and Dave are off on their flying junkets 
and we’re cooped up in the trailer. We’ll need someone 
rather young and fairly presentable, don’t you think? So 
he can be a sort of companion to the girls when they’re 
dancing and riding and swimming? And you know your- 
self, Len, that fairly presentable publicity men are damn 
hard to get. I don’t know that I’ve ever seen one.” 

“I’m sorry I spent the money to fly down,” he said 
grimly. “If I’m to pick out a man for you, seems to me 
you ought to pay the bill out of your expense account.” 

“Unfortunately we haven’t a percentage club, like the 
Governor,” she disclaimed quickly. “Besides, darling, I 
don’t expect you to pick him out.” 

“That’s what I was afraid of,” he admitted gloomily. 
“Now let’s get this straight, Ollie. You speak of your 
cavalcade of cars. What’s it to be? A campaign for re- 

101 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


election, or a specially conducted young ladies’ tour with 
a presentable escort ?” 

“The election conies first, of course. But after all, the 
Senator — ^Uncle Lancy — and I cannot overlook our re- 
sponsibility to these poor dear children. We must provide 
for them as best we can, even in the exigencies of a cam- 
paign. Who would you suggest ?” 

“I wouldn’t suggest anybody. I’d suggest putting the 
girls in jail till I get rid of the Governor. They don’t need 
an escort. Dave Cooper can handle them. True, he’s no 
Don Juan ! He’s forty and fat and married and chews to- 
bacco. But he can give you all the publicity you need and 
more than you merit.” 

“I was thinking of someone like — well, how about Cecil 
Dodd?” 

“Cecil Dodd! Lord, Ollie, if you upholster your trailer 
in purple duvetyn and silken cushions you’ll elect the Gov- 
ernor ! . . . Cecil Dodd 1 . . . Ollie, we’ve had our occasional 
differences but I’ve always admired you as a straight shoot- 
ing, shoulder-to-shoulder old trooper. . . . Cecil Dodd 1 . . . 
Do you want to shatter a young man’s fondest illusions ? . . . 
Cecil Dodd! You’re not taking him to play politics. 
You’re taking him to gum up my works.” 

“He writes very beautiful and touching articles, Len 

Hardesty, and you can’t deny it But I admit I want him 

especially as a sort of a companion — a’ sort of chaperon for 
the girls. . . . When they do their playing. ... I can’t keep 
my mind on them every minute and run this campaign at 
the same time.” 

“No! So you salve your calloused conscience by giving 
them this — ^this silk pajamaed pariah as a watchdog. . . . 

102 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


Well, if that’s what you’re up to, you count Adele out. She 
can’t go. I put my foot down on that. You can sick him 
onto your innocent Helen and trusting little Limpy if you 
like — if that’s your idea of Christian duty to young or- 
phans — ^but I’ve got King’s X on Adele and she can’t go.” 

“Well, I’m glad you approve,” said Olympia beamingly. 
“Have a drink, Len? Your seal of approval relieves me a 
lot. I wasn’t quite sure about it in my own mind, but 
you’ve settled my doubts.” 

“Aw, Ollie, be a sport! Give a fellow a break, won’t 
you ? Remember what pals we’ve always been ! Remember 
the life I’m going to lead with the brats and the trumpet 
yawping at me from every angle! How can I drum up 
votes for the sawdust trailer if I’m going to be upset over 
the Opposition all summer ? Do you want to nip the bud- 
ding career of a rising young genius ?” 

“I’d love to. If you consider yourself a budding genius, 
which most people don’t. Thanks, Len. I’ll call him first 
thing in the morning.” 

“You’ll call him? . . . Hayen’t you called him! Haven’t 
you cinched it? . . . Thanks for that, my darling old dra- 
gon !” he said, a ray of light breaking over his face. “I’ll 
land him first. I know every sofa he sits on. . . . Tough 
luck, old dear; the Governor’s hiring an escort for the 
brats if he has to add an extra per cent to pay for him. 
Good-by, dear beautiful angel,” he said to Adele. “For 
your sake, I tear myself away to corral that menace.” 

The girls sat quite motionless until he had dashed from 
the room. Aunt Olympia contentedly lighted a cigarette. 

“Are — ^you going to let him get away with it ?” gasped 
Adele. 


103 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 

“My dear/^ said Aunt Olympia, “in politics you never 
allow grass to grow where the Opposition is going to plant 
his foot. I tried to get Cecil this morning but he is up in 
New York writing up that model murder case for the tab- 
loids. If Len Hardesty knows every sofa in Manhattan, 
he’s had entirely too much experience to associate with 
you — ^my dears.” 


i 


104 


Chapter V 


On the next morning at eleven o’clock, Aunt Olympia re- 
ceived Cecil Dodd in the sitting room. She received him 
alone, having with difficulty hardened her heart to the girls’ 
importunities, for they, eager curiosity doubly whetted by 
the united opposition of Uncle Lancy and Len Hardesty 
and by Aunt Olympia’s defense, were eager for a glimpse 
of him. Aunt Olympia, for the only time, withstood their 
pleas. Even Limpy’s “Aw, Aunt Olympia” did not move 
her. 

For all her remarks to the Senator and to Len Hardesty, 
Aunt Olympia was determined that the young man him- 
self should entertain no false notions of his status. She 
would make his place clear to begin with and see that he 
kept it. She greeted him cordially but with official and 
businesslike briskness. 

“I’ve been thinking of our talk the other day,” she began 
at once. “Did I understand you to say you would like to 
try your hand at campaigning?” 

“I’m crazy to,” he said boyishly. “I’ve applied for a job 
every place under the sun, but nobody will take me because 
I have no experience; and how the deuce can I get expe- 
rience when nobody will try me out ? . . . Maybe you could 
give me a recommendation,” he suggested humbly. 

“No, I can’t do that,” she said flatly. “I don’t know 
whether you’re any good or not and I’m careful about my 

105 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


recommendations. But maybe I could give you a job — a 
very small job, of course. But it would be a starter.’’ 

Cecil Dodd was so surprised he couldn’t say a word. Re- 
fuse a recommendation — ^and give him a job ! It seemed al- 
most unethical. 

“You know the Senator is coming up this year,” she ex- 
plained volubly. “Dave Cooper is his man but it’s going 
to be a big job and a stiff job, and we’re taking on an as- 
sistant. How would you like to try your hand at it ?” 

“Oh, Mrs. Slopshire !” he gasped reverently. 

“It won’t be much of a salary,” she warned him. “The 
Senator was such a fool he never dreamed of starting a 
per cent club himself. Besides,” she added hastily, “he 
thinks it isn’t moral.” 

“Experience is worth more than money,” he murmured, 
devoutly. 

“Not to us,” she admitted. “Anyhow it’ll be something 
and we’ll pay your expenses, and if anybody can teach you 
the racket, Dave Cooper can. . . . With some help from 
me. ... You see, Cece, this isn’t like the usual campaign. 
We’ve got our young nieces with us and we’re going to take 
them along. Those girls are going to be our best asset in 
this campaign and we want someone — not quite so hard- 
boiled as Dave — ^to do full justice to their vote appeal. And 
since the girls will be around constantly, we’d like someone 
of agreeable disposition and — some social experience — ^to 
be a sort of companion to them. And we think you’ll do 
all right. You’ll take orders from Dave, of course, and do 
what he tells you and go where you’re sent. But your main 
job will be handling our end of the game.” 

Cecil Dodd was boyishly delighted. When the first mo- 

106 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


ment of reverent and worshipful awe had passed he found 
voice again. 

“Mrs. Slopshire/’ he said earnestly, “I’ll work like a 
dog; I’ll work day and night. I’ll take orders from any- 
body.” 

“Well, don’t get mixed up and take them from the Oppo- 
sition. . . . And it won’t be all work. I want the girls to get 
a lot of fresh air and exercise — swimming and riding and 
dancing — and you’ll probably have to act as escort when 
the Senator’s busy and I’m tired.” 

“It’ll be a pleasure to do an)rthing,” he assured her. 
“Why, Mrs. Slopshire, if we can elect the Senator over that 
Church crowd and Len Hardesty, it’ll be a big feather in 
my cap. A bigger one in Dave Cooper’s, of course, but I 
will be satisfied with anything. I’ll bet I can work up from 
this to the presidential train. I might even rate a fishing 
cruise. It’s the first big thing that ever came my way and 
I’m so grateful I can’t find words to express myself. I’ll 
get some books on campaigning and try to pick up the right 
dope. I’ll drop my free-lance writing immediately and spe- 
cialize. You’ve got to specialize these days.” 

“The salary won’t begin till Congress adjourns,” she 
said quickly. 

“That’s all right, Mrs. Slopshire. But when the salary 
begins, I want to be ready to earn it. I’ll lay off the country 
clubs and spend more time at the Press Club. I can pick up 
a lot from those fellows. They won’t mind my listening 
when they know I’m getting somewhere. Be sure and tell 
me when the Senator is having something up in the Senate, 
will you ? I want to be there to take notes.” 

Having come to this amicable agreement, Aunt Olympia 

107 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


asked him to stay and meet the girls. He accepted the in- 
vitation gratefully but Aunt Olympia could see that his 
mind was less on them than on the great opportunity which 
a bounteous Heaven had so surprisingly bestowed upon 
him. He responded courteously to the introductions but 
seemed not even to notice Adele^s eyes. 

'‘Not as good a reporter as Len Hardesty/' thought Aunt 
Olympia. “Len hasn’t overlooked a lash.” 

The girls, considerably to their surprise, found him 
pleasant, even likable, and a decided contrast to the explo- 
sively verbose Len Hardesty. He was slight in build, 
not tall, but lithe, with a suggestion of muscular strength in 
his easy movements. His voice was low, almost diffident, 
his smile boyishly winsome. He dressed with that studied 
and expensive carelessness that is so revealing to the prac- 
ticed eye. 

“Well, you may as well begin now as anytime,” said Aunt 
Olympia. “Take a memorandum, will you?” 

He hastened to comply, drawing out his fountain pen 
and a small, elegant date book in limp leather. 

“I’ll get a notebook,” he said apologetically. 

“Remind the Senator — or remind me to remind him — ^to 
be sure to write up and tell the farmer at Shires — that’s our 
place up home — to have an extra suit of farm clothes for 
the Senator to borrow when he speaks at the Granges. 
Your clothes made me think of it,” she explained. 

Cecil looked down at his clothes with startled eyes. 

“Oh, you’re all right. You’re not spotted,” said Olympia 
reassuringly. “My mind works by contrast.” 

The girls talked him over when he had gone. They 
agreed that Len Hardesty had been unjustly prejudiced and 
that Cecil was a nice boy and they could stand having him 

108 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


around. They thought his eager enthusiasm for the job 
rather pathetic. 

‘^Yes, it’s pathetic,” assented Aunt Olympia. “Cece is 
all right. The trouble is that he’s always been able to do 
what he wanted to instead of what he had to. He has 
enough money to live on, so he’s never had to file his nose 
on the grindstone. It takes grindstone to make a news- 
paperman.” 

really what you would call a sweet child,'' Helen 
wrote to Brick Landis. ^'He seems so young and so un- 
spoiled, and yet Aunt Olympia says he's had his own way 
all his life and had everything he has ever wanted. He is 
taking this job with such deadly seriousness that she is be- 
ginning to fear he will neither amuse us nor drive Len 
Hardesty mad, which was her main object. He began bring- 
ing up huge volumes on politics to get Aunt Olympia's 
opinion of them, but she stopped that. She said he could 
get his opinions from her and Dave Cooper. He has bought 
a new, perfectly gorgeous, simply huge, brief case and a 
new portable typewriter. And whenever he is not sitting 
raptly in the Senate gallery gazing down at his candidate 
and taking notes of every breath he draws, he is at the 
Press Club trying to make * contacts.' I just wonder. Brick, 
if you take politics seriously enough. You didn't pay thirty 
dollars for a brief case and buy a new typewriter. 

''Anyhow, he is turning out better than they expected. 
Even Dave Cooper — who went off into explosive guffaws 
of laughter when Auntie told him about his assistant — ad- 
mitted last night that 'the kid means business.' And from 
Dave Cooper that is a compliment! 

"But people are different in Washington, Brick. Some- 

109 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


thing about it changes them. . . . Don't let it change you, 
darling, I couldn't hear that. ... Yet it has changed even 
us, as little as we really see of the inside of it. Adele is 
different. I don't understand her any more. Y ou remem- 
ber how I could always tell by a look just what she was 
thinking, or planning, or hoping? Not any more. I can't 
even tell whether she is in love with Len. (In fact, I can 
hardly tell about him, he is so very hilarious about it.) I 
can't tell whether she is in love with him or just amused; 
and he is amusing. When I remarked that she always puts 
on her most becoming dresses when he comes she drew 
down her left eyelid like Aunt Olympia and said, ^Well, the 
more I upset him, the less harm he'll do Uncle Lancy.' 

''Limpy hasn't changed much; she still likes to eat and 
hates mathematics; but she is a whole lot slicker, and I'm 
sorry about that. It's a wonder she isn't spoiled to death. 
She is definitely their favorite, even more than Adele; 
though they are lovely to all of us. But they just hang on 
Limpy's words. You know she doesn't talk much — and 
what she says usually is worth listening to, though not al- 
ways polite. When she opens her mouth they almost shut 
everybody else up to hear what she is going to say. And 
she gets everything she wants. All she has to do is say, ^Aw 
Uncle Lancy,' and look wistful and he wipes his glasses and 
says in his opinion let her do as she pleases. I think she is 
trying to work them, but I can't imagine what it can be for, 
for she has — we all have — more than we could possibly 
want. 

**Oh, Brick, I do hope something really big, really im- 
portant, happens while I am here, in the thick of things. 
Of course there's a great furore about the Court Fight and 

110 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


Reorganization and Wages and Hours, but it’s all talk. 
Brick. T alk, talk, talk. Reams and reams of Congressional 
Record; all talk. They spend hours talking things out in 
committee, and then the hill goes to the floor and is patched 
and amended and sent from Senate to House and hack 
again, and if anything ever does pass, the President is apt 
as not to veto it. 

tell you one thing. Brick Landis! This idea of tacking 
extraneous amendments on hills is simply pernicious. If 
you come to the House and they put a hill through to stop 
child labor and preserve the Sabbath and maintain freedom 
of the press, and you tack on some sneaky little rider to 
allow ten billions to Iowa to fight chinch bugs — well, as 
Aunt Olympia says. I’ll 'divorce if not de-neck you.’ ” 

Aunt Olympia went with Helen and Adele one afternoon 
to a large cocktail party — ^the invitations had said “tea/’ It 
was at the home of an outstanding Republican senator; 
they remembered that later, with some bitterness. Adele, 
left alone for a few minutes, was approached by a man, 
comparatively young, quite handsome, whom Adele in- 
stinctively labeled “a foreigner of some sort.” 

“I met you just after you came in. Miss Rutherford,” 
he said pleasantly. “I am Gabriel d’Allotti. I couldn’t 
possibly expect you to remember me in that crowd and that 
confusion, but by the same token, you could not possibly 
expect me not to remember you in any crowd or any con- 
fusion. You are unforgettable.” 

Adele smiled pleasantly. But she remembered Len Har- 
desty’s warning, “Beware of embassies and attaches !” 

“Are you with one of the embassies ?” she asked. 

Ill 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


‘^Alas, no ! I have no such importance. I am just a young 
man trying to get along. But I know the embassy crowd 
and have friends among them, so I get around. May I 
bring you a drink ?” 

‘‘Not now, thanks.” 

“To tell the truth, I am one of about a million foreigners 
trying to get the true American picture. I do free-lance 
correspondence for a few foreign papers and magazines, 
and naturally I am collecting my impressions for a book on 
America.” 

“If you get the American picture, you see better than I 
do,” she admitted. “It looks a hodgepodge to me. Like 
modern painting. You can’t tell whether that pink splash 
is a lady’s arm or a platter of fried liver with onions ! And 
then it turns out to be a bunch of grapes.” 

He laughed appreciatively. “I find the same difficulty, 
both with art and with America. But I am young and 
brave. I shall die struggling. Do you like Washington ?” 

“Oh, very much.” 

“Of course you get the right slant on it,” he conceded. 
“It helps a good deal to be on the inside looking out and 
around, instead of, as I am, on the outside, waiting my turn 
at the knothole.” 

“Oh, but that’s my trouble ! I’m on the outside, too.” 

“You can’t be far outside in the home of Senator Slop- 
shire. He knows his America. I have often wondered about 
your senators. Do they act at home as they do on the 
floor?” 

“Um, something the same. Uncle Lancy wipes his 
glasses ; and blushes through his thinning hair when he is 
flattered.” 

112 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


“But what does he talk about ? Does he merely say, as 
I would, how very beautiful you are? Does he complain 
about the eggs being overdone ? Does he read his speeches 
to you?'’ 

Adele laughed. “He reads them to Helen, but she asked 
for it," she admitted. “Helen is trying to learn politics 
from the ground up. She is my older sister." 

“Dear me, is she going to run for something ?" 

“Maybe. Anyhow, she made up her mind to learn it. She 
goes to committees and reads the Congressional Record 
and at night they go to the library and argue for hours — 
over how many air defense guns are required here and 
there, and whether peace is preserved by more armaments 
or by disarming, and which end of a boat is the proper 
place to put guns and how many times the new destroyers 
can be torpedoed before they blow up — all that sort of 
thing." 

“Dear me ! It sounds quite horrifying. Doesn't he ex- 
pound it all to you, too ?" 

“Oh, no. I don't listen. Limpy and I don't care for that 
sort of thing. We just pick out the best nuts and think of 
other things." 

“Simply profound of you, I should say. More impor- 
tant things ! Like, where's your yellow basket?" 

“Oh, nothing half as profound as that. If we lost our 
yellow basket. Uncle Lancy would demand a congressional 
investigation and get it back for us." 

Gabriel d'Allotti went away presently. He had not seen 
Helen before. Naturally, seeing Adele, one looked no 
further. He did not make the mistake of asking Adele to 
point out her sister. He was not so clumsy as that. He 

113 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


asked someone else, a stranger, where she was — Senator 
Slopshire's niece. The stranger, being a man, pointed to 
Adele. 

‘‘No, I mean the other one ; the studious one; her sister.” 

“Oh, yes, there is another one. . . . Let's see. . . . Oh, there 
she is ; over by that window. The tall girl in the black hat 
and veil.” 

Gabriel d'Allotti introduced himself to Helen. “Fve been 
having a delightful chat with your very lovely sister,” he 
said with engaging candor. “She tells me that you and I 
have a great deal in common ; that we are a pair of young 
innocents in the primary department of the big college of 
politics.” 

“Oh, I’m not up to the primary department yet,” said 
Helen. “I’m still in the cradle. But I am trying so hard to 
understand things — and making very little headway.” 

“We must collaborate,” he said. “We are having the 
same trouble. We have learned the ‘c,’ and the ‘a,’ and the 
‘t’; now we must digest our wisdom and combine it into 
‘cat.’ Perhaps two digestions, like heads, are better than 
one.” 

“It sounds promising,” she said. “I confess that half the 
time I just listen and frown and don’t even try to digest it. 
I keep hoping one acquires it gradually, like suntan, from 
persistent application. Perhaps between us we could get the 
‘c’ and the ‘a’ and the ‘t’ into a little kitten, at least, if not 
into a full-grown cat to begin with.” 

“It’s a bargain,” he said heartily, shaking hands with her. 
“I shall go at once and make diplomatic overtures to your 
aunt.” 

Inside of five minutes he had Aunt Olympia’s attention. 

114 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


“Mrs. Slopshire,” he said ingratiatingly, “it is only fair 
to inform you, in strictest confidence, that I have been com- 
pletely enchanted with your very lovely niece. How does 
one go about getting permission to call ?” 

Aunt Olympia glanced approvingly across the room at 
Adele. “She certainly got more than her share of looks,” 
she said. 

“Oh, you mean Miss Adele ! Yes, she is exquisite. But 
personally I find myself rather more attracted the other way 
— ^to her sister — Miss Helen.” 

“Helen! Good heavens, you don’t mean Helen? . . . 
Have you renounced your citizenship ? I never heard of a 
foreigner preferring morals to beauty. Not,” she added 
hastily, “that Adele is immoral.” 

“Well, it would be going too far to say that I have suc- 
cumbed to a state of morals,” he admitted. “In fact, I 
never suspected their presence ; that shows how interesting 
she is. I find her quite brilliant and with a nice balance of 
humor.” 

“So she is ! So she has 1 You’re perfectly right,” said 
Aunt Olympia heartily. 

“Then does one call ?” 

“One comes to tea.” 

“Pardon my persistence. How soon does one come?” 

“Tomorrow. It will be nice to have you. We’re living 
very quietly of course — almost in seclusion — because of 
that terrible tragedy but I do want the girls to pick up what 
amusement they can.” 

“I’ll be at my most humorous, I promise you. I’ll go 
around and collect some good stories for them.” 

“Don’t!” she ejaculated. “If you’re hearing the same 

115 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


ones I am, they are not fit for their young ears. Bring 
yourself — and leave your repertoire at home.” 

“ Who^s that man ?” she asked, turning to a friend who 
stood near. “That one — ^making tracks for the punch bowl. 
With too much lotion on his hair.” 

“That? Why, that’s Gabriel d’Allotti ! You must know 
him. He goes everyplace.” 

“Oh, yes, I know him all right. But I’ve had so much 
trouble with that damn Alengon that I try not to pick up any 
foreign names. . . . Gabriel d’Allotti. . . . Yes, I know 
him.” 

”He is very interesting” Helen wrote to Brick Landis a 
couple of weeks later. ''And isn't it strange that he hasn't 
fallen in love with Adelef Well, he certainly has enlivened 
my study of the American system. He disagrees with me on 
marly everything. He has the foreign idea of maintaining 
peace — that is, by bigger and better armaments. You'd al- 
most think he was going to take out naturalization papers, 
he gets so wrought-up over America's lack of preparedness. 

"T 0 tell the truth he knows a lot more than I do about the 
American system, though he doesn't approve of most of it. 
He comes to the house quite often and once he went with 
me to one of Uncle Lancy's committees and we did agree 
on one thing: that it is mighty hard for a dozen men sitting 
around a table to agree on a policy to save the nation; espe- 
cially when the plan goes from them to the Senate, then to 
the House, back to the Senate, and back to conference 
again; and when they do finally agree on something, there's 
still the White House to reckon with. 

"You needn't worry, darling. He hasn't the suggestion 

116 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


of a crush on me. Y ou can't fool women about that. Some- 
times we think they have when they haven't, but we never 
think they haven't when they have. We're not that dumb. 
But we are both interested in the same things and it really 
is more exciting to argue with him than with Uncle Lancy. 
Uncle Lancy' s always afraid of hurting my feelings, and 
Mr. d'Allotti isn't. But he isn't my type. I like 'em red 
headed and a bit roughed up. 

*'Oh, Brick, the session is nearly over and nothing has 
happened! Wouldn't you think one really big thing — an 
important thing — might happen while I am here, so I could 
get a glimpse beneath the surface?" 


117 


Chapter VI 


Early in May, Aunt Olympia decided it was time for the 
assistant director of publicity, Cecil Dodd, to begin sending 
stories to the home papers. Olympia, who was an indefatig- 
able maker of notes, had a list of “points^’ ready to start 
the campaign on her own and the girls’ behalf ; the Sena- 
tor, except for incidental remarks in passing, was to be left 
to Dave Cooper. So she sent for Cecil and, at their laugh- 
ing insistence on its educational value, permitted the girls 
to listen in. 

“Now, you see, Cece,” began Olympia, with great gusto, 
“politics is an elaborate and intricate system of build-up. 
That’s all. Just build-up.” 

Cecil took his limp leather loose-leaf notebook from his 
monogrammed thirty-dollar brief case and, with a U. S. 
Senate pencil the Senator had given him made a note of 
“build-up.” 

“A lot of it has to be done in advance because it must be 
gradual. An untimely climax gums up the works. It has 
to be a gradual ascent to the wind-up. Dave, as you know, 
is already at work building up the Senator’s record and so 
forth but we women of the Senator’s household must have 
our domestic build-up. The woman-vote, you know. 
Though a lot of males fall pretty hard for that domestic 
angle, too.” 

Cecil, raptly attentive, made a note of “domestic angle.” 

“Now, in the first place, you must announce that certain 

118 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


salient facts were gleaned from Mrs. Slopshire in an inter- 
view. . . . This is an interview. . . . Fm going to answer the 
questions you would ask me if you had enough experience. 
Now, in answer to what should be your first question, I 
reply, with deep feeling, no, we have not as yet given a 
moment's thought to the coming campaign. That is left to 
the future. We — ^the Senator and I — ^are so happy in hav- 
ing these dear children with us, our home life is so full, so 
serene — Never say ‘exciting,’ Cece, for your life! Say ‘sat- 
isfying.’ Our home life is so serene, so satisfying — 
you might say serenely satisfying, if you like — that so far 
we have been entirely wrapped up in quiet family interests.” 

The girls gasped. Cecil made fast notes with the Senate 
pencil. 

Aunt Olympia descended then from the plane of an in- 
terview to practical counsel. 

“At first, Cece, you’d better let Dave read your stuff and 
make suggestions if he wants to. You see, he knows our 
constituency. You can use the same ideas for different con- 
stituencies — not always, though; and frequently they must 
be couched in different words. For instance, some words 
will delight a Scandinavian or Irish settlement which would 
grossly offend a Ladies’ Aid. Dave has the state mapped 
out and knows every prejudice in it. You can work that 
out with him.” 

“I’ve memorized the map,” said Cecil. “That is, the 
regular map. I know the counties, towns and rivers, but 
there’s nothing to indicate the prejudices.” 

“Dave’ll indicate ’em,” said Olympia drily. “Now, in 
writing about the girls, Cece, remember to use only what 

119 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


we call innocent adjectives — ‘young, simple, girlish, in- 
genuous’ — ^not ‘innocuous’; be careful about that. ‘Quiet 
dignity’ is good, and ‘innocent youth’ and ‘childish candor’ 
are effective. If you absolutely have to mention beauty, 
qualify it; call it ‘youthful beauty,’ or ‘girlish beauty.’ But 
avoid beauty if possible. To the average mind, beauty goes 
with bathing contests and rich husbands. In mentioning 
their clothes always call them ‘simple,’ ‘girlish’ and ‘inex- 
pensive.’ ” 

“They do not look inexpensive, though,” he remarked, 
being one who knew clothes. 

“Considering the effect they are going to have at the 
polls, they are cheap as dirt,” said Aunt Olympia. “Never 
under any circumstances refer to elegance or luxury ; these 
belong to royalists. N ever say lavish or costly or luxurious. 
Say ‘homey comfort,’ or ‘companionable hominess.’ ” 

“By the way,” he inquired suddenly, “have you cau- 
tioned the girls about mentioning our plans to — ^well, Len 
Hardesty ? You know what he can do with the most casual 
remark.” 

Aunt Olympia ascended again to the interview. “We 
have not so much as mentioned the campaign to the chil- 
dren,” said Olympia. “It is quite an ordeal, you know, and 
we do not want their young minds fretted until the time 
comes. Be sure to get this, Cece. We want them, as far as 
possible, to lead quiet, girlish, natural lives. We want them 
to be their sweet young selves. Even to win this election, 
we shall not permit any pressure to be brought on these 
children which would cause them to depart one iota from 
their own innocent naturalness. . . . Can you take short- 
hand, Cece ? You’d better get that word for word. . . As 

120 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 

for the campaign, we have no plans at all, having been too 
happily engrossed in domestic and family matters. . . . But 
be sure to work in that we have bought an old secondhand 
trailer from a neighbor of ours up home — for two hundred 
dollars, get that in ! For our sound truck, we have picked 
up an old department store delivery truck and shall remodel 
it as well as we can to suit our purpose. After all, we are 
used to simple and unostentatious things and these will 
serve our purpose as well as the most luxurious equipment 
that riches could procure. . . . And work this in, Cece ! We 
do hope that in planning our tour of the state, our good 
friends at home will remember that we are a devout and 
God-fearing family and that we want nothing to interfere 
with our attendance at divine worship on the Sabbath. We 
would greatly prefer to have no Sunday engagements of 
any kind, but out of consideration for those busy at week- 
day labors who are unable to receive us at any other time, 
we will strain a point and meet with them in a quiet and 
dignified manner. But we ask the wholehearted co-opera- 
tion of our constituents — insofar as possible — to help us 
preserve the Sabbath from political activities.” 

“Should I say anything about how you expect things to 
turn out?” asked Cecil. 

“In answer to your inquiry,” said Olympia loftily, “Mrs. 
Slopshire assures you that we face the campaign with quiet 
and unwavering confidence as to the outcome. Our friends, 
our constituents, know the Senator ; they know his record ; 
they know his service to the state and nation. Trusting 
their judgment as we do, trusting their loyalty which has so 
often been proved, we have no doubt of the outcome. . . . 
You might say this, too, Cece : That both the Senator and 

121 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


Mrs. Slopshire are personally grieved that they are obliged 
to wage a political campaign against a minister of the 
church, their former friend and pastor. At the same time, 
realizing that thoughtful people would be unwilling to trust 
their spiritual guidance and the spiritual guidance of their 
children to a doctor, a lawyer, or a statesman, we are sure 
they will feel the same reluctance to entrust the delicate ma- 
chinery of government to the unpracticed hand of a former 

preacher Til bet at that he knows his Constitution better 

than his Bible ! . . . Don’t make a note of that, Cece.” 

‘‘That’s very good, Mrs. Slopshire,” Cecil said approv- 
ingly. “I see just how I can bring this out, one thing lead- 
ing to another.” 

“In answer to your inquiry,” said Aunt Olympia, with 
a benign smile, “Mrs. Slopshire declares firmly, no, neither 
she nor the children will participate in the campaign in any 
way. Not in the slightest degree.” 

“Aw, Aunt Olympia!” wailed Limpy, and both Helen 
and Adele looked disappointed and surprised. 

“Not participate !” ejaculated Cecil. “What’s the trailer 
for? What’s the build-up for?” 

“But,” went on Aunt Olympia firmly, “devoted house- 
wife that Mrs. Slopshire is known to be, naturally my place 
is with my husband, particularly in the trying days of the 
campaign. And obviously, my children must go with me, 
for we are their only home, whether we are campaigning in 
a broken-down trailer or living quietly on the farm near 
Maysville. We shall accompany the Senator ; but no cam- 
paigning ! Absolutely none I ‘One politician in the family 
is enough,’ Mrs. Slopshire declared, with a light laugh. 
Personally, my tastes are completely domestic.” 

122 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


She winked cheerfully at the spellbound girls. 

“Be sure to get this in, Cece. Being entirely domestic 
and housewifely, as I am, I accompany the Senator to take 
care of him, to see that he eats properly cooked food at reg- 
ular hours and gets sufficient rest. We go only to look 
after his health, his food and his comfort. I take care of 
his clothes. . . . Make a note of that, will you, Limpy ? Re- 
mind me to buy a needle and some darning cotton. . . . But 
we play no politics. The voters of our state are not con- 
stituents to me, they are dear old friends and neighbors. . . . 
You’d better get that word for word, Cece. You can’t im- 
prove on it. . . . Friends and neighbors ! And when they 
know these precious children as we know them, they will 
be their friends and neighbors, too.” 

“Am I sprouting a halo, Adele ?” put in Limpy neatly. “I 
seem to be going angelic by the minute.” 

“Cece, remind me to add a motorcycle escort to the caval- 
cade,” said Aunt Olympia, reverting again to the practical. 
“We’ll need him to carry the damn socks back and forth to 
Hilda to rip out what I put in.” 

“Do you make speeches. Auntie?” asked Adele. “I’d 
love to hear you make a speech.” 

“You’ll have to be careful on the radio though, or they’ll 
cut you off,” Limpy reminded her. 

“ ‘No indeed,’ declared Mrs. Slopshire laughingly. ‘I do 
not make speeches.’ . . . Except perhaps, privately to the 
Senator. No indeed! No speeches. All I do is put a little 
.ginger in Del’s. . . . Don’t put that in, Cece.” 

Although Adele had heard Cecil’s hint about Len Har- 
desty without change of expression, without flicker of long 
eyelash, she did not forget it. That night when they were 

123 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


all together at dinner she said cheerfully and yet with 
gravity : 

‘‘Darlings, would it be better — better politics, I mean — 
for us to see no more of one Len Hardesty until after the 
election ? I can get along without him, you know. And if 
it would be less dangerous it is quite all right with me.’’ 

Aunt Olympia, spokesman for the Senator as well as 
herself, offered a prompt disclaimer. 

“Not at all, Adele. It’s nice of you to make the offer, 
but it is not necessary. Of course, we may accidentally let 
something drop that he can pick up — and if he can, he will. 
But Len’s quite a dropper himself and I’m no slouch at 
pickings-up. And if it wasn’t Len hanging around it 
would be somebody else and probably someone a good deal 
less interesting.” She frowned thoughtfully for a mo- 
ment. “In fact, the closer you keep him to your finger tips, 
the less good he’s doing Brother Wilkie — and the less harm 
to us. I’m not sure but you should marry him and put him 
into the discard once and for all. And a damn good rid- 
dance.” 

The Senator was so touched at the generous thoughtful- 
ness of Adele’s offer that he wiped his glasses, one pair 
after the other, for a solid hour, and discontinued only 
when Helen came in from the library to ask his help. 

“Uncle Lancy,” she said, “I find I’m terribly vulnerable 
in my national defenses. You’ll have to straighten me out. 
Just look at this map.” 

She spread a relief map of North America on his knees 
and dropped on a stool beside him. 

“Heavens, Helen, have you gone back to geography?” 
said Adele. 

124 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


‘T’ll go back with you,” offered Limpy quickly. ‘T’ll 
swap you my trig for your geog. Fm very good at geog- 
raphy. What do you have to do — in rivers and moun- 
tains ?” 

“No,” said Helen. “I just have to build forts and guns 
and establish submarine bases and scrape up a few aerial 
bombers. . . . Now, look. Uncle Lancy ! . . . This is the Ca- 
nadian border. Not a fortification for miles ! Think of 
that !” 

“Have the Canadians declared war ?” asked Limpy. 

“No, and we say they never will. And probably they 
won’t. . . . But that’s not the half of it. Suppose Great 
Britain got messed up in Europe — say with Russia. That 
would keep her busy. Then suppose Germany and Italy 
got together and decided to colonize Canada. They could 
come galloping right over and England couldn’t do a thing. 
And there they’d be, right next to us, and no defenses.” 

“What’s come over you, Helen ? I thought you were a 
pacifist.” 

“So I am. But I have been talking to re-armamenters. 
They say you can’t be peaceful without preparedness. And 
just look at that Canadian border !” 

“All right, look at the Canadian border. You’re right. 
It’s vulnerable,” agreed the Senator, smiling. 

“Then take the Mexican border.” 

“A Mexican invasion would start us all eating tamales 
and beans, wouldn’t it ?” asked Limpy. 

“Mexico herself wouldn’t invade,” said Helen, patly. 
“Ah, but suppose she had alliances ; strong alliances. Say 
with Japan. . . . Very vulnerable!” 

“The Mexican border is better defended than you real- 

125 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


ize,” said the Senator. “We haven’t got all those forts and 
flying fields and military camps down there just for the 
sake of the climate. Big cities are the vulnerable points for 
an enemy. There are no very large cities down there and 
we have a scattering of defenses from the border north- 
ward,” said the Senator, becoming interested, almost de- 
fensive. 

“And just look at our Atlantic coast 1” Helen was full 
of her subject. “Disgraceful ! Just look, from way up here 
at the tip of Maine clear down to Panama ! And how much 
of a fleet have we got ? How many airplane bombers ? How 
many subs and dreadnaughts and — ^what else should one 
have ? — Why, it’s an open temptation to the covetous, like 
leaving pennies around in sight of children who love lolly- 
pops.” 

“You can join the Red Cross, Helen. That’ll help,” said 
Adele. 

“You can be a Girl Scout, and coax Uncle Lancy to buy 
you a bow and arrow,” said Limpy. 

“The trouble with people who go around talking about 
national defenses,” said Uncle Lancy pleasantly, liking his 
attentive audience, “is that for the most part they don’t 
know what they are talking about. Personally, as you know, 
Helen, I, while an ardent and consistent pacifist, am in favor 
of a full defense program from bombs to bandages. But 
that Atlantic seaboard is better defended than you think it 
is ! We’ve got a lot of very impressive works spread out 
along there. They look like mere show places to the visiting 
tourist, but there’s more under the surface than shows 
on top. You don’t suppose the shipyards up in Maine and 
New Hampshire are undefended, do you? And in Mary- 

126 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


land and Virginia ? You don’t suppose Boston is standing 
wide open, do you ? The most doubting of Thomases must 
realize that New York harbor has a gun or two tucked 
away somewhere. And come on down the coast ! Here’s 
Washington ! I doubt if even Nye would vote to destroy 
the defenses of Washington, and there’s a pacifist if ever 
lived one. And making money at it, too !” 

“Making money at it ! Dear me, I must be overlooking 
something. I’m a simply rabid pacifist, but nobody’s offered 
me a cent for it so far.” 

“You have to be more than pacific to get paid for it,” 
said Uncle Lancy smiling. “You have to be gifted with the 
silver tongue of oratory and the jeweled darts of a melo- 
dious vocabulary.” 

“You have to have more than that, too, to be a Nye,” 
said Aunt Olympia suddenly. “You have to have those 
smoldering, somber eyes and that lean, high-minded face, 
the face of a zealot with just the suggestion of latent fires.” 

“I don’t think he’s as good-looking as Uncle Lancy!” 
said Limpy. 

“That’s because you haven’t reached college,” said Aunt 
Olympia. “That’s the first thing girls learn in college, in 
my opinion. If Nye is defeated for the Senate, I daresay 
half the girls’ colleges will have to close down for lack of 
patronage. They just keep sticking it out, year after year, 
so they can come down in the spring and hang over the 
gallery rails and watch him smolder. I’ll bet if Gallup took 
a poll of co-eds, they’d vote for a one-man government in 
Nye’s person.” 

“I think his looks are all right, myself,” admitted Limpy. 
“But Uncle Lancy is more my type.” 


127 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


Uncle Lancy, pleasurably flushed even to his hands, fin- 
ished wiping his glasses. 

“Well, on the whole, Fm as pacific as he is,’’ he ad- 
mitted modestly. “Perhaps, in some ways, even more so. 
At least, I don’t go around smoldering over banked fires, 
as Ollie says he does, and smoldering fires are usually ex- 
plosive. ... Yes, I’m pacific, all right; but on the other side 
of the fence. I don’t go out of my way looking for rattle- 
snakes, but if I run into one, I like to have a club handy to 
take care of him. That’s the kind of pacifist I am.” 

“Then you really think we are not so vulnerable as the re- 
armamenters seem to think,” pursued Helen. 

“Our most vulnerable point is our gullibility,” said the 
Senator drily. “If anybody tells us he doesn’t want to 
fight, we just can’t help taking him at his word. I daresay 
a snake says the same thing just before he strikes, only we 
do not understand the snake’s language. If we did, we’d 
probably believe him.” 

“It would work up a land-office business in snake-bite 
remedies,” said Aunt Olympia. 

“But we’re not what some people call plain suckers, at 
that,” said Uncle Lancy. “We’ve got strategic points fairly 
well taken care of, and we’ve got second and third — and 
fourth-line — defenses spread clear across the country. We 
haven’t enough, Helen. I admit that. We’re working at it 
though. The trouble is, it’s not such hard work building 
up defenses as talking down the fanatics.” 

“Well, I’m relieved,” said Helen. “I wasn’t sure I could 
sleep tonight. Of course. I’m for peace myself. . . . Not 
quite at any price, perhaps, but at any reasonable price.” 

Helen was having almost as busy a time as Aunt Olym- 

128 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


pia herself, for she continued her pursuit of political en- 
lightenment so avidly that Limpy’s logarithms Avere over- 
looked for days at a time. Dull teas, deadly receptions, 
boresome luncheons, congressional clubs, she attended 
them assiduously ; she had to, in order to help Brick when 
the time came. 

‘'And how about this garden party at the British Em- 
bassy?” Aunt Olympia demanded one day. “WeVe got 
to answer it. Do you want to go ?” 

“I’d love to,” said Helen promptly. 

“Wasn’t I invited ?” asked Adele jealously. 

“Yes, we’re all invited. . . . All right. I’ll accept for you 
girls and us, if you really want to go, and decline for 
Limpy.” 

“Aw, Uncle Lancy !” wailed Limpy. “I’ve never seen a 
lord!” 

“You haven’t!” he ejaculated. “Well, well, think of 
that now. They’re no great shakes, in my opinion, but if 
you want to see one, go and take a good look.” 

“He’s not a lord, anyhow, he’s just a younger son,” 
said Aunt Olympia. 

“Is that a lord-in-the-making ?” asked Adele interestedly. 

“Is that the same as a lord-on-the-make ?” demanded 
Limpy. 

“A lord-in-the-making-on-the-make would be some- 
thing, wouldn’t it ?” suggested Adele. 

“Certainly,” assented Uncle Lancy. “Take a good look, 
if you want to.” 

“Del!” protested Aunt Olympia. “Why, she’s a mere 
child!” 

“Well, she’s a nice child,” he insisted. “If a cat can look 

129 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


at a king, I reckon a child — a nice child — can have a squint 
at a lord-on-the-make — I mean, in-the-making. There’s 
nothing worldly about garden parties. In my opinion, it’s 
children they’re given for.” 

“Garden parties,” said Aunt Olympia severely, “are 
worth the wages of a gardener for the cigarette ashes they 
keep off the rugs alone I” 

“/# was very nice,'' Helen wrote to Brick Landis. *'They 
served champagne punch under a marquee at one end of the 
garden and the refreshments a long way off at the other 
end under another. Aunt Olympia said that was to make it 
harder and take longer for guests to go dashing hack and 
forth, consuming liquor and refreshments. They served 
exquisite big strawberries and an American substitute for 
Devonshire cream. You know how Limpy loves strawber- 
ries. Uncle Lancy braved that formidable line of butlers 
three times to get extra portions for her. He said she was 
entitled to still more under her quota because she doesn't 
drink champagne. Limpy said she didn't think the Ambas- 
sador was half as lordly-looking as Uncle Lancy and he 
wiped his glasses for ten minutes and the top of his head 
turned so pink that somebody asked if he was sunburned. 
He stopped the car on the way home and bought her six 
big boxes of strawberries and I daresay she'll break out in 
£b rash. 

f ^'The invitation said from five to seven and exactly at 
seven o'clock the orchestra came out from behind the 
bushes and played God Save the King and everybody stood 
up, and the chairs just seemed to melt away out of sight and 
everybody went home. 

130 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


**Limpy told Aunt Olympia she ought to try that way of 
getting rid of people at her parties when she invites them 
from five till seven, for a dozen or more stick around till 
nine or ten and Len Hardesty doesn't go till he is put out 
But Aunt Olympia said it wouldn't work with Americans; 
said somebody would slip the orchestra leader a dollar to 
‘swing it,' and they'd all start dancing and she'd have them 
on her hands for breakfast. 

“A dele complained that they did not serve nearly so 
much as at most of the Embassy things, the South African 
Union, for instance, where it was a banquet as it always is 
at the Siamese Legation. Aunt Olympia says it's the law of 
compensation; the smaller the nation, the bigger the feed. 

“I finally put Gabriel d'Allotti to shame on the pacifist 
question by proving that we are not as vulnerable as we look 
and sound. Uncle Lancy pointed out all the hidden de- 
fenses to me and I made a lovely map of them. I'm keeping 
it for you, in case you go on National Defense. 

“And, oh. Brick, weren't you surprised at Ed Eicher 
retiring from the race for Congress after he had won 
renomination in the primary? And what a break for us 
Iowa Republicans ! Aunt Olympia was furious. She said 
in her opinion it was a congressman' s Christian duty to 
hang onto a good seat instead of chucking it to the wolves. 
By wolves she means us, R., Iowa. She wanted Uncle 
Lancy to coll him up and give him a piece of her mind!" 

On a morning in June, the girls were amused to find 
Aunt Olympia sitting at her desk, very red of face, frown- 
ing intently at a thick pad of paper and chewing the rubber 
of a pencil with a long, sharp point. As they watched, she 

131 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


bent forward, smiling broadly, and wrote a few lines, very 
fast. When she had finished with a big black period, she 
looked up at the girls with a slight smirk. 

‘Tt can’t be her expense account,” said Limpy, ‘Tor 
even in a dumb thing like trig they figure things out in 
numbers.” 

“It’s my speech,” said Aunt Olympia, obviously well 
pleased with what she had written. 

“Your speech!” 

“For the campaign,” she explained. 

“You know, Helen,” said Limpy reproachfully, “that 
trigonometry of yours has got me clear off the English 
language. That’s what cosines and tangents do to a bril- 
liant mind. I understood her — trigonometrically speak- 
ing — to say she doesn’t make speeches.” 

“You understood me all right,” said Aunt Olympia. 
“But there always comes a time, quite late in the cam- 
paign — I select the time — ^when the Senator is delayed in 
an important conference — ^perhaps with Farley, or maybe 
just a long-distance call from the White House — ^and just 
to fill in the gap till he comes I arise and make a few 
extemporaneous remarks. And I always like to be pre- 
pared. Len Hardesty taught me that trick and it’s a good 
one. He helped write my last speech and it was the hit of 
the campaign. But now I can do all right alone.” 

**You know, Brick,” Helen wrote, quite anxiously, 
''there's no getting around the fact that this is the crooked- 
est racket you ever heard of. Not exactly crooked 
perhaps, hut definitely bent. Maybe you'd better withdraw 
before it's too late and stick to groceries. I think I can get 
132 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


you an appropriation from Congress. Brick, you can't 
believe a word anybody says. Aunt Olympia looks so hon- 
est, so open-hearted and frank, and here she is, even before 
Congress has adjourned, writing and practicing her ex- 
temporaneous speech to fill in a strategic moment that she 
selects herself. 

^'Brick, when we do get around to getting married, if 
you stick to politics, I warn you that if you rise at the 
wedding to make a few extemporaneous remarks, I shall 
arise myself and publicly denounce you. I've learned that 
there is nothing extemporaneous in politics." 

The next time Len flew down to Washington, Adele, 
who had what was virtually a unique quality for a beauty, 
straightforward frankness, looked him gravely in the face. 

‘T told the folks that if it is at all dangerous, or if it 
embarrasses them in any way, I would not see you again 
until after the election.” 

‘^Figuring me, I suppose, as some sort of electrical cur- 
rent that can be turned off or on at will.” 

‘T meant it, Len.” 

“Yes, dear adorable little devil, 1^11 bet you did. What 
did they say ?” 

“They said it was not necessary; that you do not em- 
barrass them at all.” 

“Well, they embarrass me no end,” he said bitterly. “Sit- 
ting around making me talk politics when I could relax 
and gaze into your eyes. ... Not that there’s anything very 
relaxing about your eyes. . . . They embarrass me by mak- 
ing me fight them when I’m on their side. They’re crooked, 
beautiful ! I hate to see you messed up with them. If I 

133 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


could just tell the constituents what they roped me into, 
they’d elect the brats in a minute.” 

“Len,” she said hesitantly, ‘‘they are so friendly to you 
and treat you so nicely; you wouldn’t use an)rthing you 
hear here against them, would you ?” 

“Sure I would, if I had a chance. That’s my job. And 
they’d use me, too, in a minute they would, and no doubt 
do. They ruined this campaign for me, pinning me down 
to the other side and then springing you on me !” 

“But, Len, how could you do anything against them — 
when they are — are so magnificent? To you 1 And to us, 
too!” 

“Because, darling, if I don’t pull every trick from my 
bag, they’ll be the first to despise me. This is a job, Adele.” 

“I don’t like it,” she said faintly. 

“Adele, I’ve known those two a long time. They are 
swell sports. They’re game as they come. But if I fell 
down on this job because I like them — and adore you — 
they’d be the first to sneer. And you’d be next. Listen, 
sweet ! I don’t want them beaten, but I’m going to try my 
damnedest to beat them. If I don’t, do you think Olympia 
will ever feel the same? We can’t beat them, unless we get 
some breaks I can’t foresee. That’s what I’m on the look- 
out for — ^the breaks. And it will mean a lot for me if I 
put it across. The Governor has promised me anything I 
want. Anything ! We could get married then. I could take 
care of you.” 

“I don’t want to be taken care of — ^at their expense. You 
don’t know how lovely they are to us. I don’t want any- 
thing — ^taken from them.” 

“Talk to Olympia,” Len said. “She knows this racket. 
134 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


It’s always a scrap. They can take a beating, but they can’t 
stand a quitter.” 

“I think it is— despicable,” she said, and there were tears, 
very becoming tears, in her lovely eyes. 

‘Tt’s the democratic form of government,” he said 
gently, and kissed the tears away. “But don’t take my word 
for it, sweet. Ask them.” 

“But if you were with us, Len, it would be so perfect. To 
have you go with us, and plan with us, and be on our 
side—” 

“Yes, it would be perfect. But if I broke my contract, it 
would be the best weapon the Governor could hold against 
him. They would claim that by Influence and Money the 
Senator had treacherously hired a man to break his con- 
tract. It would beat him quicker than anything else.” 

“But Len, hasn’t principle got an)rthing to do with it ? 
Do you think the Governor would make a better Senator 
than Uncle Lancy ?” 

“No, sweet, I don’t. But that hasn’t a thing in the world 
to do with it. ... No, I don’t think so. But thinking isn’t 
my job. Publicity is.” 

''Ifs appalling. Brick,” Helen wrote distractedly. 'Tm 
just terrified of the whole thing. It all simmers down to the 
fact that the outs want in, and the ins want to stay where 
they are. I don^t believe there is a single thing at stake but 
that. Brother Wilkie and Uncle Lancy agree on almost 
every point, except that the Governor thinks the Repub- 
licans could do a better job finishing what the Democrats 
started. I asked Aunt Olympia what is the real issue in this 
campaign. 


135 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


** ‘The issue!' she boomed. ‘The issue? Why, the issue 
is just whether the Senator is going to be beaten by that 
treacherous worm who ought to get back in the pulpit where 
he belongs.' 

“All the time. Brick, all the money, all the scheming and 
planning, all the heartaches — just for that." 

Aunt Olympia was packed and ready for adjournment 
by the tenth of May. Still Congress dawdled, filibustered, 
talked. She called the Senator’s office a couple of times a 
day to ask the prospects, and though she received no en- 
couragement, she did not unpack. She worked pretty stead- 
ily at her * ‘lists,” which by this time required a filing cabi- 
net. There were lists of entertainments to be given when 
she reached home ; telephone calls to be made ; supplies to 
be acquired ; souvenir gifts to be purchased for the children 
of influential constituents; lists of doubtful acquaintances 
to be conciliated; lists of things to do, or write, or speak 
to Cece or Dave about; lists of last-minute hints to the 
girls. 

Occasionally she got mixed up. She went into Wood- 
ward and Lothrop’s one day, took out her list, lifted her 
eyeglasses and read the first item. 

“Ladies’ Aid Society.” She read it twice before she 
could believe her eyes. “Ladies’ Aid Society.” 

She laughed quite merrily at the mistake. “No, thanks, 
my dear, no more Ladies’ Aids for me,” she said to the 
salesgirl. “I’ve got too many as it is. I brought the wrong 
list.” 

The second week in June she sent Hilda on up to Mays- 
ville with most of the baggage and with orders to get things 
136 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


ready for their arrival. It couldn’t be long now. The most 
stentorian congressional voice was frayed and rasping. 

“A hog caller couldn’t stick it out much longer,” she told 
the girls hopefully. 

And then, on June 16 th, Congress adjourned. 

Helen drew a deep, tired breath. ‘‘At last ! It’s over I” 
she ejaculated. 

Olympia’s snort was deep and gusty. She raised her 
shoulders like a champing Pegasus pluming for flight. 

“Over !” she boomed. “Over I Why, it hasn’t even be- 
gun !” 


137 


Chapter VII 


Aunt Olympia was justly proud of Shires, the senatorial 
estate near Maysville. Maysville, the capital of the state, 
headquarters both of Republican and Democratic state 
committees, was an ideal location for the Senator in a cam- 
paign year. It was an ideal location for Len Hardesty, 
too, though working for the Opposition. “Not even a 
preaching slave-driver with seven brats can keep me on the 
go day and night all summer,’^ he told Adele confidentially. 
“I've got to relax occasionally, and I expect to do all my 
summer’s relaxing at Shires.” 

The Senator’s estate was a tidy and prosperous farm, 
with meadows for grazing; with orchards, gardens and 
small tracts of corn, alfalfa and wheat to provide food for 
their livestock, all in strict accord with the highest concep- 
tion of what a senatorial farmer’s country place should be. 
A small creek gurgled prettily through the green meadow, 
dammed up at one point under wide spreading willows to 
make a swimming pool; “swimming hole,” they called it. 
There was a tennis court and a croquet ground ; and through 
the shady woods that spread over the hills beyond the house 
were pleasant saddle paths. 

The house itself was low, rambling and wide, with 
porches on every side; with high cupolas and low stoops 
and broad fireplaces ; with great rooms, huge windows and 
crystal chandeliers ; artistically old-fashioned to the last de- 
tail. Yet the old-fashionedness of it was more apparent 
138 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


than real, for it was only ten years old and its equipment 
was modern to the extreme. “Old looks and new conven- 
iences” was Aunt Olympia’s idea of a home, and she had its 
realization in Shires. 

In planning their arrival after the adjournment of Con- 
gress — ^Aunt Olympia always had a plan for ever)rthing 
minutely laid out in advance — she had been bitterly torn 
between natural thrift and pride. She wanted the girls to 
see Shires first in all its pristine beauty, and yet, wishing to 
safeguard and preserve that beauty, she trembled physically 
at thought of the havoc to be wrought on it by the first 
horde of friendly callers. Love triumphed. The girls 
should see Shires as it was ; for was it not to be their future 
home with her and the Senator — or, at least, Limpy’s fu- 
ture home? This was a supreme tribute to her devotion 
to the girls, for her esthetic nature usually played second 
or even third fiddle to the utilitarian. 

She ordered Hilda to have the place in the pink of per- 
fection for the girls’ arrival. 

“And be ready for a lightning change,” she said grimly. 
“Have the campaign drapes and curtains ready. Get the 
summer rugs cleaned. Have the packing cases and moth- 
proof bags opened and aired. Tell Martin to get the tubs 
and fences and railings ready to put up at a minute’s notice. 
Lay in moth-balls and wire screening and plenty of bolts 
and nails and padlocks. Tell Martin to have the tree guards 

painted and laid out But be sure to have everything out 

of sight when we get there. I want them to see it right 
the first time.” 

The girls, remembering the down-at-the-heel parsonages 
that had been their previous homes, were almost speech- 

139 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


lessly thrilled with Shires. There wasn’t a farm in Iowa 
could hold a candle to it. They liked everything about 
it, from the honeysuckle and wild roses clambering over the 
porch rails with such apparent abandon — though really 
guided and compelled by the stern hand of the farm man- 
ager, Martin — ^to the cunning chicken incubators and 
brooder houses. 

“Yes, it’s nice,” assented Aunt Olympia modestly, crim- 
son with delight in their delight. “But we never should 
have called it Shires. Too aristocratic. Shires is. Now 
that the tide of public opinion has turned against elegance, 
we’ll probably lose a thousand votes by that name. If we’d 
called it Cozy Rest or Happy Home or Old Mill Meadows 
we’d be better off.” 

“Why don’t you change it, then, just till the campaign’s 
over?” 

Aunt Olympia shook her head. “Len Hardesty,” she 
explained briefly. “He’d get a nation-wide hook-up to ac- 
cuse us of finagling for votes.” 

She was anxiously apologetic about the rooms she had 
assigned them. “Now, you don’t have to take them unless 
you want to,” she assured them. “We’ve got plenty of 
rooms, and after the campaign you can have one apiece, 
and easy. But during the campaign we have extras here 
nearly every night, committeemen, or reporters, and we 
have to save a room for Cece Dodd, and Dave will be here 
a good deal. So if you can be comfortable in just two 
rooms till after the campaign, it’ll be a help.” 

The girls were joyously sure they could be comfortable. 
Aunt Olympia had chosen two connecting rooms for them 
at the opposite end of the hall from the huge room — ^with 
140 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


two baths — that she occupied with the Senator. In the 
larger of the two rooms were twin beds, which Aunt Olym- 
pia thought would be nice for Helen and Adele ; the smaller 
room, with a wide bed — ^the best bed in the house it was, 
too — she thought would be all right for Limpy, who wasn't 
really full grown yet and ought to be by herself. Aunt 
Olympia had already figured out that when Helen and 
Adele were gone — as they would be — Limpy could have the 
whole suite, with the big room made over into a parlor 
where she could entertain her young friends in cozy pri- 
vacy. But she did not mention that. 

For a full week after their arrival, though she suffered 
for her treasures. Aunt Olympia restrained her housewifely 
inclinations. She permitted callers, both constituents and 
sightseers, to trample her velvety lawn, tread roughly on 
her neatly trimmed hedges and flower beds, scatter ashes 
and cake crumbs on her oriental rugs. One week of ago- 
nizing proof it was of her love for Limpy. 

Then, almost overnight. Shires became a Cozy Rest. The 
oriental rugs and brocade tapestries were removed and 
stored in moth-proof containers in the attic. The best 
chairs and more costly small tables were removed. Pieces 
of bric-a-brac, vases, pictures, expensive ash trays and 
cigarette boxes, finely bound books, were stowed away in 
locked drawers. 

‘‘Never leave any little nice thing lying about loose in a 
campaign," she said. “To constituents, anything small 
enough to go in a pocket is a souvenir." 

Even the grounds shared the campaign renovation. The 
rarest and most treasured of small shrubs and plants were 
removed to the greenhouse, which was padlocked. Stout 

141 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


grilled iron fences enclosed the flower gardens and bushes. 
Little railings shut off the place where visitors were not to 
walk. 

‘‘Why don’t you put up Keep-Off-The-Grass signs?” 
suggested Limpy. 

“They wouldn’t keep anybody off, in the first place,” ex- 
plained Aunt Olympia. “And people would swipe them for 
souvenirs so we’d have to have fresh ones every day. And 
if some tourist soiled her dress on new paint, she’d sue us.” 

During the remainder of June and through July, the 
family gave itself up to quiet rest and recreation. There 
were a few speeches to be made, and the Senator did a great 
deal of work in his upstairs study with Dave Cooper and 
Jim Allen, the state chairman, with any number of county 
chairmen and visiting committees ; did still more work at 
the Democratic Headquarters in town. 

Cecil Dodd joined them at Shires on the fifth of July, 
and an old roadster was turned over to him to travel about 
the state in, meeting committees, arranging rallies, hobnob- 
bing with the press and getting his bearings in general. 

In July, Aunt Olympia, referring to her “Social Ac- 
tivities” list, invited the Ladies’ Aid Society of the Meth- 
odist Church in Maysville to a garden party at Shires. The 
girls, who thought they knew Ladies’ Aids, were amazed 
at the quantity of refreshments she planned for this event. 

“Dear me, it must be a huge Aid,” said Helen. “You 
have food enough for two hundred.” 

“There’ll be two hundred,” said Aunt Olympia. “Though 
it’s not a very large Aid. They’ll bring all their children 
and cousins and aunts-by-marriage. They’ll take advantage 
of it being election year and invite all their out-of-town 
142 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


friends — ^who would visit them anyhow sometime this sum- 
mer — ^and offer my garden party as the main attraction.” 

There were two hundred and fifty at the garden party. 

‘‘Most of ’em I never saw before in my life and half of 
those I have seen don’t even belong to our church. I’ve 
been counting noses and I’ve already checked nine Baptists, 
three Catholics and a Christian Scientist,” she whispered 
bitterly. 

Aunt Olympia greeted them all with suave urbanity, 
and sent Martin to town to buy more refreshments. She 
did not show resentment when Mrs. Farrell, the president 
of the Society, arose to make a few remarks, of which the 
first sentence or two were innocuous words of greeting and 
welcome home, and the united thanks of the Aid for this 
lovely party. Then the purring voice took on a more sin- 
ister note. 

“And Sister Slopshire, I do hope you noticed our new 
church carpet. You remember that filthy, ragged one that’s 
been a disgrace to our faith the last fifteen years ! Well, I 
said to the ladies, ‘Ladies, I simply cannot bear to have 
poor dear Brother Slopshire — and Sister Slopshire — set 
foot on that old rag again.’ I said, ‘Ladies, it’s not only un- 
sanitary and unhygienic, it’s absolutely unsafe. Some- 
body’ll trip on it and sue the congregation. And if poor 
dear Senator Slopshire should trip. I’d be so ashamed I 
couldn’t lift up my head again.’ So we got the carpet to 
surprise you and I am sorry to say we have not yet got it 
paid for, and knowing how generous you always are, and 
how you always co-operate with us ladies in our forward 
movements, I just wondered if you wouldn’t like to con- 
tribute something.” 


143 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


Aunt Olympia even smiled as she wrote the check and 
bowed graciously in reply to the fluttering applause that 
greeted her act, but the girls recognized the flicker of the 
left eyelid, the uptilt of the left corner of her mouth. 

‘T don’t know what they think their votes are worth !” 
she said bitterly when they had gone. “And on top of the 
check, those refreshments cost me fifty dollars, and they 

trampled my lawn and let their kids-break the hammock 

Women are simply insatiate ! A man will come through for 
a good cigar and a bottle of ale, but you can’t satisfy 
women.” 

The Senator had no real opposition in the Primary and 
spent only enough time and money on it to strengthen the 
party machine and lay the groundwork for the real battle. 
The girls thought that was a lucky break for the Senator 
but Aunt Olympia was bitter about that, too. 

“It just makes it tougher in the end,” she said. “Makes 
it more intensive. If you have to fight for your life all 
summer you can sort of spread it out. But no ! Without a 
primary fight, it jams up on you all at once. Too bad we’re 
not down south. There the Primary ends it. You get the 
nomination and you’re elected.” 

“Isn’t that true of a good many other states, too ?” asked 
Helen. 

“It used to be true of some states,” admitted Aunt Olym- 
pia. “Some states just went Republican and some went 
Democratic, but not any more. Except Maine and Ver- 
mont, of course. And from what I’ve heard of those states, 
it doesn’t seem worth while living there even to win an 
election.” 

The preliminary activities of the campaign were of a 

144 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


mild sort, more in the nature of social pleasantries than 
warfare. There was frequent attendance at church sup- 
pers, fish fries, shore dinners, club picnics and firemen’s 
balls. There were a few speeches to be made, photographs 
to be posed for, interviews given and disseminated. 

There was a constant flow of visitors in and out of 
Shires. The velvety lawn was trampled by constitutents. 
The small railings were knocked down and broken, requir- 
ing almost daily repair. Busses and private cars disgorged 
picnickers on the greensward, who asked — and obtained — 
permission to eat beside the Senator’s gurgling creek or 
under his spreading oaks. They threw paper plates in the 
pool and besought the Senator for autographs and insisted 
on having their pictures taken with the three sweet orphans. 

The Senator had figured that six weeks would suffice for 
the intensive, swing-of-the-state campaign. But he had 
not reckoned with Brother Wilkie. Six weeks was not 
enough for the Opposition. In July, while the Senator was 
blissfully basking in a breathing spell, the Governor swung 
into action. To take the edge off the Senator’s homey old 
trailer, he established the children, the beldame and Len 
Hardesty in a covered wagon and hit the trail. 

Twice every Sunday he was guest preacher in some pul- 
pit or other, with his entourage — except Len Hardesty — 
ensconced piously in a prominent pew while he dispensed 
spiritual food and political propaganda to the worshipers. 
One week the state papers carried a photograph showing 
Brother Wilkie, his hand on the Bible, gazing upward, pre- 
sumably at Heaven, while in the front pew sat the blinking 
beldame and the rapt children. 

“Humph !” said Olympia. “Looks like an ad for God. . . . 

145 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


I'll bet Len Hardesty didn't pose that in person. They 
couldn't drag him to church.” 

But it worried her. On the next morning at breakfast 
she said abruptly, ‘We've got to have more pictures of the 
girls.” 

“Auntie ! Not more pictures ! There couldn't be any 
more pictures !” 

“Oh, yes, there could! You'll be surprised. Let's see 
now. We can't show you in the trailer till we get started. 
We've had pictures of you picking apples, gathering eggs, 
in the hammock, ready for garden parties, playing tennis, 
swimming, at croquet, and on horseback. That's all. What 
else could we have, Del ?” 

“You don't need to have them doing anything,** he said. 
“Just a picture of them doing nothing at all is a sight for 
sore eyes.” 

“Humph I . . . Cece, I suppose, as usual, you have no ideas 
on the subject ?” 

“I agree with the Senator,” said Cecil Dodd, who had 
become a Slopshire-for-anything devotee. “Any picture of 
the girls is a work of art.” 

“I don't want a work of art. I want a work of poli- 
tics. . . . Mmmmmmmmm!” she murmured reflectively. 
She looked at the girls. Her eyes wandered to the window. 

“We haven't had any farm pictures !” she shouted tri- 
umphantly. 

“Oh, yes, we have!” disclaimed Adele promptly. “You 
had us cutting roses and gathering eggs and picking apples 
and in the hammock and — ” 

“I mean farm work. We're just old-fashioned farmer 
folk, you know,” she said benignly, “and we're not above 
146 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


turning our hand to the real work of the farm when there’s 
a rush on. Del,” she turned on the Senator sharply, “what 
the devil’s the matter with your alfalfa?” 

The Senator looked anxiously at his plate. ... No, it was 
his usual shredded wheat biscuit. 

“There’s nothing the matter with my alfalfa that I know 
of. If you want alfalfa, you’ll have to ask Martin. I don’t 
even know where he planted it this year. In fact, I’m not 
sure but he cut down the acreage to collect from Agricul- 
ture.” 

“The girls,” said Aunt 01)mipia, “will help rake the al- 
falfa. ’Phone for the photographer, Cece.” 

“You’d better ’phone for Martin, first,” said the Senator 
mildly. “And make sure he’s got some alfalfa.” 

“Make a note of this, Cece,” said Aunt Olympia, whose 
mind raced from inspiration to detail with lightning speed. 
“Tomorrow. Ten o’clock. The girls will rake a little and 
then ride home, laughing gaily, on top of the hayrack. 
We’ll have a simple luncheon — doughnuts and milk — 
spread under the trees for the return. The farmers will 
eat this up. ... I don’t suppose you brought any overalls, 
Cece?” 

“Overalls ?” he repeated vaguely. 

“And a denim shirt. You can be an extra hand and save 
expense. That’s why we’re doing this work ourselves — to 
save expense,” she decided suddenly. “Hilda ! Have we 
got any sunbonnets ?” 

“Sunbonnets !” Hilda frowned. “What’s a sunbonnet?” 

“You couldn’t get sunbonnets for love or money. 
Auntie,” said Adele. “Unless you get in touch with a the- 
atrical costumer.” 


147 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


“We haven’t time for that. You can wear those floppy 
beach hats, then, but be sure to toss back your heads or take 
them off when you’re snapped. . . . Make a note of this, 
Cece. ‘Be sure to order denim shirt and overalls for 
Dodd.’ . . . Helen, you’d better not go, I think,” she said 
reluctantly. “It is rather too childish for you, being the 
oldest. You can lay the table under the trees and pass the 
doughnuts. Make a note of this, Cece. Important message 
from the Senator to the press tomorrow at eleven-thirty 
so the reporters’ll be on hand.” 

“My dear, if you send reporters out to watch the girls 
rake hay they’ll know it is a plant,” he reminded her. 

“You silly fool,” she said fondly. “I won’t send them 
out. I didn’t work with Len Hardesty without getting on to 
newspapermen. First thing they’ll say is, ‘Where are the 
girls?’ I’ll say, ‘Oh, they’re out helping get the hay in.’ 
And they’ll grab three doughnuts apiece and dash for the 
alfalfa patch and leave you in the middle of a sentence. 
Make a note of this, Cece. Tell Hilda to get two hundred 
doughnuts. She can heat them up in the oven and we’ll 
say she is cooking them while we eat.” 

“I haven’t got an3rthing important to give out,” pro- 
tested the Senator. 

“Make a note of this, Cece. Tell Dave to think up some- 
thing for the Senator to announce.” 

Aunt Olympia’s spirit was contagious. By noon the 
plans were well under way. The doughnuts had been or- 
dered. Dave had concocted the Senator’s message and no- 
tified the reporters to be on hand. The photographers had 
their instructions. Martin was cutting the alfalfa. The 
girls had their costumes — sturdy white low-heeled shoes, 
148 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


floppy wide-brimmed hats and trim little ‘‘cotton” dresses 
of finest French gingham, laid out in readiness. Cecil had 
submitted himself for approval in new denim shirt and 
overalls. To his relief, he found them becoming. 

“I swear I look as good as a chorus man,” he admitted 
cheerfully. 

“He does at that,” said Aunt Olympia uneasily. “Do 
you think he’s too theatrical, Del ? . . . Don’t wear gloves, 
Cece. You’ve got to pitch hay in your bare hands and if 
you break your nails you can add a manicure to your ex- 
pense account. You’d better not shave tomorrow; I’m 
sorry you shaved today. But lay off the razor till it’s over. 
Dirt farmers never shave during harvest.” 

At half -past nine the next morning, the two girls in their 
cool cottons tripped off to the alfalfa field with Cecil Dodd. 
The plan was for them to be hard at work when the pho- 
tographers arrived. 

“I’ll say they looked so cute I couldn’t resist having their 
pictures, not for distribution, of course; just for my own 
collection.” 

Indeed, they looked so very cute that the Senator was 
seized with a desire to go along and Olympia had difficulty 
restraining him. 

“You’d spoil the effect,” she said irritably. “And be* 
sides you’re supposed to be working on your statement to 
the press.” 

“Dave has it ready and mimeographed,” he protested. 

“Well, the least you can do is read the damn thing once 
and make sure you can pronounce the words,” she snapped. 

Martin had the hayrack fairly well filled before the young 
harvesters reached the field, but they fell to work at once, 

149 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


the girls with rakes and Cecil Dodd with the fork. Martin 
got up to the driver^s seat and took the lines. They were 
very merry about it and worked with laughing good will. 

‘Tf we rake faster than you can pitch, Cece,’’ said Limpy, 
“you have to buy us an ice-cream soda.’’ 

“And take us to a movie !” added Adele. 

“What happens if I out-pitch you ?” 

“We’ll give you a doughnut and a glass of milk,” prom- 
ised Limpy. 

“Two Maud Mullers on a summer’s day,” began Cecil. 

“ ’Twas campaign time to make hay, hay !” added Limpy. 

“The judge was a chorus boy named Cece,” Adele 
chimed promptly. 

“The horses said, ‘Excuse it, ple-ss (pless) !’ ” 

“The Mauds were dolled up fine and fancy — ” 

“To rake in votes for Uncle Lancy,” Cecil continued. 

“And Martin said, ‘All I can say, 

“ ‘Is can the chatter and rake that hay !’ ” 

They went into gales of laughter at their composition 
and Martin sniggered appreciatively on the driver’s seat. 

“Here come the photographers !” he warned them sud- 
denly. 

They fell to work again and the photographers snapped 
them from every possible angle. Then, when the rack was 
filled, the rakes and fork were tossed atop it, the girls were 
boosted up, Martin whipped the horses and they started 
homeward, Cecil walking behind with the photographers, 
grinding away at their machines. The girls did whatever 
was asked of them; they sat down; they sprawled; they 
stood up; they brandished the whip; they leaned on the 
rakes ; they waved their hats. 

150 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


“Stand up again! Come to the end for a close-up!” 
called one. 

Limpy started. 

Another photographer had run around in front to get a 
good view of the team and Martin. Suddenly the near 
horse got a glimpse of him in front of his blinder. The 
camera clicked. The horse shied. The wagon lurched. 
Limpy lost her balance, stumbled over the rake handle and 
was flung headlong from the rack. 

“Limpy!” 

Adele sat down and slid neatly off the stacked hay, land- 
ing on her feet, and dropped on her knees beside her sister. 
But Cecil Dodd was before her. He had Limpy in his arms. 

“Limpy ! Darling ! . . . Darling ! Are you hurt ?” 

“No,” said Limpy irritably. “It would serve me right if 
I broke my neck. What do I think I am anyhow, some 
daring young man on a flying trapeze ? Ouch !” 

Cecil Dodd was white with rage. “Of all the damned 
idiotic fool nonsense — ” he began passionately. 

“Oh !” cried Limpy faintly. “Oh ! I think I'm going to 
faint! Catch me, Cece.” 

Cecil caught her. 

“Shut up, you silly dunce,” she whispered. “The press'll 
hear you.” 

Limpy tried to rise, assisted by Cecil and Adele. 

“Ouch I . . . Don't pull ! . . . Ouch ! I scratched myself !” 

Martin, too, had swung down from the driver's seat. 
Now he raised his hands to his lips. 

‘‘Yoo — ^hoo — ah !” he bellowed. “Bill ! Bring the wheel- 
barrow ! Quick !'’ 

Bill came running from the garden with the wheelbar- 

151 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


row — ^which was hastily bedded with fresh-cut alfalfa and 
Limpy helped into it. 

‘‘Poor darling,” said Adele. “Does it hurt much?” 

“No,” said Limpy crossly. “Pm just bruised in the 
pride! Fll be the laughing stock of Iowa. Falling off a 
hayrack 1” 

The cameras clicked again. 

Olympia had been having worries of her own. Hilda — 
“dumb cluck” — had mistakenly shown the reporters to the 
Senator’s study instead of escorting them to the side porch, 
which commanded a good view of the tables and chairs 
on the east lawn. The Senator had given them his mes- 
sage and settled down to answer their queries and expound 
the doctrines of the campaign instead of remarking, as he 
should have done, that he would “reserve his remarks till 
after lunch; come on down and have a doughnut.” 

Aunt Olympia tapped her foot impatiently; they were 
going to miss the haying. It was nearly twelve o’clock. 

“Make hay while the Senator shines,” she muttered ir- 
ritably. 

By the time the Senator got the reporters down to the 
veranda, the haymakers could be seen in the distance, wend- 
ing their homeward way. 

Olympia greeted them with a suavity she did not feel; 
she seldom did feel her suavity. 

“You must excuse me,” she said beaming rosily; “I’ve 
got to have lunch ready for those poor dears. . . . The chil- 
dren have been raking hay this morning. . . . Helen, dear, 
run tell Hilda to fry more doughnuts. . . . Surely you boys 
will have a doughnut with us and a glass of milk.” 

152 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


The reporters had no thought of anything else. Olympia 
led them out to the tables. The hayrack turned into the lane 
that led to the barn yard. Olympia gave it a very dirty look. 
She had told the girls to ride home. Her eyes swept be- 
yond it to the trailing party. There came Adele and Cece 
and the photographers and Bill with a wheelbarrow ; but no 
Limpy. 

‘‘Del!” she cried shrilly. “Something’s happened! 
Limpy’s gone !” 

“Be calm, my dear,” said the Senator, putting on his dis- 
tance glasses. “Be calm. There she is. She’s riding in the 
wheelbarrow.” 

Aunt Olympia collapsed upon a chair. She wiped her 
brow. “She’s . . . she’s so playful,” she said bravely. “I 
thought maybe she had hurt herself.” 

“Adele’s crying,” said Helen suddenly. “Limpy’s 
stretched out ! She is hurt !” 

“Del!” gasped Aunt Olympia. “Call a doctor! Do 
something! Something’s happened!” 

They ran to meet the wheelbarrow, the Senator, Aunt 
Olympia, Hilda and Helen, followed and presently passed 
by the reporters. 

“Limpy!” 

“Limpy, what happened ?” 

“I’m sleepy,” said Limpy shamefacedly. “I’m taking a 
siesta !” 

“She fell off the hayrack,” said Adele. “I don’t think 
she’s much hurt, Helen. She stood up all right.” 

“Alengon Delaporte Slopshire!” began Aunt Olympia 
in a sort of tearful bellow. And then she stopped suddenly. 

153 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


Not by any possible stretch of her imagination, though it 
was elastic to the roots, could she blame this on the Senator. 
This made it doubly hard to bear. 

“What was Cece doing? Why didn't he prevent it?” 
she cried. r 

Cecil didn't answer. He didn't look at her. He stalked 
on toward the house, looking surly. 

“I'll bet it was his fault !'' said Aunt Olympia accusingly. 

“No, it wasn't, darling,” said Limpy. “He wasn't even 
on the hayrack. I stumbled and fell off and I'm not hurt 
a bit. I just caught a hitch-hike home.” 

“Put her to bed ! Call a doctor ! Where's that damned 
emergency kit ?” 

“Put me in the hammock and pass me a couple of 
doughnuts. Ouch!” said Limpy, rising from the wheel- 
barrow. 

They held the hammock steady for her to lie down. 
Someone ran for doughnuts, for milk. Cecil Dodd stood 
grimly by with folded arms and said nothing. 

But since it was apparent that Limpy was not ruined for 
life by the disaster, Aunt Olympia rallied. She had the 
tables moved over close to the hammock so Limpy could 
share the fun. 

“Tell Hilda to fry more doughnuts,” she ordered again 
and again. “Cece, what's the matter? You're not eating 
anything 1” 

“I'm not hungry,” he said curtly. 

“Don't you want a doughnut?” 

“No.” 

“Don't you want a glass of milk?” 

“No, I don't.” 

154 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


“He’s got a sunstroke!” ejaculated Olympia. “Bring 
him a drink. Don’t give him any ice Avater. Call a doctor, 
Del I Where’s that damn kit ?” 

Cecil sat down with his back against a tree and held his 
knees between his arms. “I’ve not got a sunstroke; I’m 
not sick ; I don’t want anything. And if you want to know 
what’s the matter, I’m mad! I’m mad through and 
through.” 

Olympia dropped the subject. She was an old cam- 
paigner. She knew enough not to fight things out in the 
presence of reporters. She fell to passing doughnuts with 
great vigor. The girls, she thought, must have said some- 
thing to hurt his feelings. 

When reporters and photographers had gone, Dave 
Cooper turned to Cecil. 

“Well, come along, Cece. The Senator’s going to get 
busy next week. We have to buzz off and get the works 
oiled.” 

“Buzz off !” ejaculated Cecil. “You mean go off — away 
from here — ^and leave them here alone? . • . I can’t go ! I 
daren’t leave here ! I’ll resign !” 

The family was speechless. Hilda stopped removing 
the dishes and glared at him. Dave lighted a cigarette. 

“We can’t go off and leave her with these — ^these — 
people,” he substituted politely. He had started to say 
maniacs. “They’ll kill her. They’ll drown her in that 
damned pool or tie her in the attic and set fire to the 
house or throw her out some upstairs window or — ” 

“You silly dunce !” boomed Aunt Olympia, with tears in 
her eyes, her under-chin trembling ominously.. “I suppose 
you think I pushed her off that hayrack !” 


155 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


‘‘No ! I don't think you pushed her off ! But I know who 
sent her up there !" he boomed back, accusingly. 

“Del!” wailed Olympia. “He thinks — I’m going to — 
kill Limpy!” 

The Senator rose to the appeal. “This was very unfortu- 
nate, Cecil,” he said with senatorial dignity. “Most unfor- 
tunate. We must certainly be more careful in the future. 
But your work is laid out for you ; you must go with Dave. 
You needn’t worry about the children; I shall make it 
my business to look after them from this on. You go 
along now and get ready to go with Dave. I’ll take care 
of the children.” 

Aunt Olympia had had a hard day and she was terribly 
upset about Limpy. And now, on top of everything else, 
this from the Senator! For five minutes after Cecil had 
gone she sat motionless in her chair, except for a rough 
swabbing at her under-chin. Then she spoke. Her voice 
was high and wavering. 

“Meaning, I suppose,” she faltered, “that you think 
you’re a better mother than I am 1 And if that child dies 
I’m to blame for it 1” 

The Senator was so surprised he didn’t know what she 
was talking about. He had meant only to stand by 
Olympia and silence Cecil. 

“Cece was terribly upset, Auntie,” said Adele. “I was, 
too. You can’t imagine how it felt to stand there — and 
see Limpy pitching off, face downward — ^and nothing we 
could do about it. He was upset, that’s all.” 

“Well, so am I upset!” said Aunt Olympia. “I don’t 
know when I’ve been so upset !” She blinked hard to keep 
back the tears. 

156 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


Limpy got quietly out of the hammock, not without 
some sharp twinges of pain, walked over to Aunt Olympia 
and sat down in her lap. 

‘‘Aw, Aunt Olympia,” she said wheedlingly, “we had a 
swell time ! We laughed and made up poetry — ^very good 
poetry, too ! — and Cece owes us an ice-cream soda and what 
do you say we do the whole thing over tomorrow?” 


157 


Chapter VIII 


In August, impelled by the Governor's aggressiveness, 
the Slopshire-for-Re-election campaign got under way. 
The old trailer, after standing outdoors three or four days 
to become plebeianly stained with dust and streaked with 
rain and dew, was packed for travel. The itinerary was 
planned to the ultimate minute. The sound truck was 
loaded with papers, files and books. 

The girls enjoyed campaigning. Aunt Olympia hovered 
over them broodingly, her solicitude not entirely attribut- 
able to their value as campaign material. She saw to it — as 
far as she was able — ^that they had proper rest, regular 
meals, abundant exercise. She decreed — and saw that the 
decree was well publicized — ^that the place chosen for them 
to pitch camp each night should provide some recreation 
for the girls — ^tennis, horseback riding or swimming; ‘‘for 
the Jiealth of our children far transcends a senatorial cam- 
paign." 

Olympia herself usually went about with a large sewing 
bag on her arm. In this she carried fresh handkerchiefs, 
cigarettes (for private use only), a make-up box, an im- 
pressive array of darning cottons, needles and threads 
(assembled by Hilda), and an old, worn-out pair of the 
Senator's socks, on which she darned photographically 
with amazing patience. The regular mending and laun- 
dry were sent back to Hilda at Shires — ^without benefit of 
158 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


camera men. The girls were frequently photographed in 
the act of washing or ironing a set of napkins. 

‘Toor Adele is doing the laundry this morning,” Aunt 
Olympia would say apologetically to the newsmen, leading 
them to the best view. “We ran short of linens.” 

“Auntie, Auntie,” Limpy remonstrated confidentially, 
“you’re forgetting you’re Scotch. We’re going to wear 
those napkins out if we keep on laundering them half a 
dozen times a day. Shouldn’t we use them at least once, 
just to get our money’s worth out of them?” 

Invariably they returned to Shires for the Sabbath, to 
get a little rest and a few hot meals ; and always to attend 
church, very much en famille, the Senator, Aunt Olympia 
and the three girls, the cynosure of all eyes. Even when 
Brother Wilkie, the Governor, reached Maysville in his 
Sabbath tour of pulpits, the Slopshires went to church. 
Their presence did not seem to disconcert the minister, but 
he kept his eyes for the most part on the front pew where 
the children sat with the beldame. Uncle Lancy rather 
ostentatiously put a five-dollar bill in the plate, but Olympia 
surreptitiously countered with a telephone slug. 

But it was Aunt Olympia who invited him and his troupe 
to dinner. She did it with penetrating heartiness, too, as 
the members stood agape at the church door with Brother 
Wilkie shaking every hand. 

“I want you and the children to come right up with us 
for Sunday dinner,” she proclaimed clearly. “You may 
be our political opponent. Brother Wilkie, but in the house 
of God you are His minister. And our board, such as it is, 
is your board.” 

Len Hardesty, who was usually hard pressed about one 

159 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 

thing or another on Sunday morning, had also attended 
divine worship in Maysville that morning, occupying the 
corner of the pew directly opposite Senator Slopshire’s and 
gazing uninterruptedly at Adele's slightly flushed profile 
during the entire service. He put nothing in the collection 
plate. Though Olympia had not definitely included him 
in her invitation, he tucked Adele cozily into his small 
roadster and arrived at Shires in advance of the main 
party. 

‘‘You may as well lay a place for me, too, Gustavus,” he 
told Hilda cheerfully. “And don’t put me next to the 
brats. . . . Can’t they wait till the second table ? Or how 
about serving Adele and me alone in the back yard ?” 

was shocking, Brick'' Helen wrote. There we all 
sat, smiling, cooing and being polite. Brother Wilkie asked 
the blessing. Aunt Olympia, looking like an overgrown 
cherub with high blood pressure, gushed over the brats apd 
we talked about the church and unanimously blamed the 
ills of the nation and the ills of the world on our spiritual 
decline, our falling away from the precepts of our fathers, 
our disregard of the holy Sabbath. And inside we were 
all roundly cursing each other, of course; and every word 
of the sermon had seethed with politics. Uncle Lancy was 
called from the table three times — more politics. And Len 
Hardesty took notes of Aunt Olympia's wise-cracks so he 
could use them himself. And then we all stood on the porch 
and waved good-by to them as they drove off, the children 
loaded down with apples and candy and cookies — but no 
salted nuts, because Uncle Lancy said they were Limpy's 
and hid the box." 

160 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


Even with the campaign well under way, they continued 
to see a good deal of Len Hardesty. “Too damn much,’’ 
Aunt Olympia said expressively. He was constantly pop- 
ping in on them unexpectedly, both when they were on the 
trail and when they were resting up at Shires. By seeming 
chance they ran into him at tourist camps, at beaches, fair- 
grounds and public parks. Even at the Senator’s table, he 
kept his notebook beside his plate to jot down additional 
proofs of the Senator’s inefficiency or Aunt Olympia’s 
extravagance. 

“Hum, squab, I see,” he said one Sunday, making a note 
of it. “I’ll have a larger portion. Senator, if you don’t 
mind. ... So it’s squab, eh? . . . And the Governor and 
the brats and — ^worse luck, I! — dine on corned beef and 
cabbage.” 

“He does that to appeal to the slaughterhouse vote,” said 
Olympia. “I’ll bet he goes right upstairs afterward and 
fills up on caviar and truffles and French pastry.” 

“I notice that’s a very expensive radio you’ve got rigged 
up in your trailer,” Len went on. “We’ve only got a second- 
hand phonograph in the covered wagon to amuse the 
brats.” 

“We had to get a good one to follow the Governor’s 
speeches,” said Aunt Olympia. “He mouths his words so 
you can’t understand him on anything less than the best.” 

“Not, I suppose, figuring that it also enables your pretty 
wards to amuse themselves dancing on the greensward to 
New York night-club music?” 

“Well, what’s wrong with dancing on the greensward ? 
It’s one of the most innocent and natural diversions. 
David did it !” 


161 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


“Yes, but before the Lord; not before photographers 
and reporters,’’ said Len. 

“I’m not sure of that. There must have been reporters 
present He’s been getting publicity on it ever since, hasn’t 
he?” 

“And he certainly didn’t do his dancing in the arms of 
a well-tailored lounge lizard,” persisted Len. 

“ *Honi soit qui mal y pense/ ” quoted Aunt Olympia 
airily. 

“French, huh?” said Len Hardesty, making a note of it 
“Alenqon Delaporte must be giving you lessons.” 

“Del doesn’t know a word of French, you worm, and you 
know it !” 

“Some people say he can’t even speak English,” said Len. 

“Certainly! Good plain old unvarnished American is 
good enough for Senator Slopshire. . . . Make a note of 
that, someone. . . . He says ‘hornswaggled’ and T swan,’ 
and there’s nothing English or French or aristocratic about 
horns waggle and swan.” 

“Go on, Ollie, you forget who you’re trying to kid 1 . . . 
Or would it be whom? . . . I’ve been a Sloppy hanger-on 
for ten years and I never heard him do any s wanning. . . . 
However,” he added thoughtfully, “I admit he’s very apt 
to, come next November eight, when he’s tuning up for his 
swan song.” 

During September, the congressional hearings on un- 
American and subversive activities almost took the lime- 
light from the state campaigns. The Senator was almost 
childishly pro-American in his convictions, and followed 
the reports with morbid avidity. Some of his most ringing 
speeches were in hot defense of this suddenly jeopardized 

162 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


Americanism and he received a very good press on it. 

This obliged the Governor to follow the same tack, 
though he had no personal experience with subversive ele- 
ments and thought them a good deal overrated. He had 
spoken in every Methodist church in the state and he hadn’t 
seen any subversive activities going on. Still, since sub- 
versive elements were definitely not popular with the 
orthodox, he leaped gallantly to their denunciation. 

One day the press reported that in the compulsory regis- 
tration of foreign agents, some known to be engaged in 
such activities had not registered. Investigations were 
under way. The next morning headlines screamed the 
news that three well-known and popular Washington 
socialites had been arrested as spies. One 0‘f these was 
Gabriel d’Allotti. 

That was exciting news for the orphans, and Adele and 
Limpy had great fun teasing Helen about it. Helen took 
it good-naturedly. 

‘‘No wonder he knew more about things than I do,” she 
said cheerfully. “Fd know things too, if I were paid a 
salary for learning them. Fm afraid he wasn’t the old 
palsy-walsy I thought him ; he didn’t tell me what he was 
finding out.” 

Even Aunt Olympia thought it was amusing. She said 
she wasn’t at all surprised ; she declared that half the am- 
bassadors and all of the diplomats in Washington were 
spies. She said, “I give you my word, before I go to an 
embassy reception I take the safety pins out of the broken 
straps on my slip and have Hilda sew them on. I’m too 
proud to have foreign spies looking through me at those 
safety pins.” 


163 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


‘Tt’s a damned outrage,” said the Senator, bristling all 
over with Americanism. ‘‘They ought to be shot.” 

“Not just for looking at a safety pin, Del, surely,” said 
Aunt Olympia. 

On the next Sunday Len Hardesty arrived at Shires, too 
late for church but in ample time for dinner. 

“Fm supposed to be down in Washington touching the 
Committee for more funds,” he explained cheerfully. 
“WeTe running short. In fact, weTe low. We were re- 
duced to hamburgers last night, though I see you have an 
abundance of fried chicken here. Farley must be doing all 
right by you.” 

“You'd better get along down to Washington,” said 
Aunt Olympia, “or you’ll be reduced to canned dog food. 
As I remember, it was one of your party who first sug- 
gested it to the public — and he from a state that houses 
one of the biggest dog-food factories in the country! Not 
that I charge collusion or even bribery.” 

“I called up about it this morning. That’s why I didn’t 
get here in time for church. Gosh, I sure hated to forego 
my morning worship. . . . How did it go ? God and the 
Republicans hobnobbing as usual, I suppose, with the 
Democrats off in a cozy corner in Hell having a good time !” 

“Poor God,” said Aunt Olympia. “Politics certainly 
makes funny bedfellows.” 

When dinner was over the Senator begged to be ex- 
cused; he had important work on hand. Aunt Olympia 
got up and walked off ; she was going to take a nap, but 
whose business was it? Helen had letters to write and 
Limpy took the box of nuts and the funny papers and went 
out to the porch. Adele and Len Hardesty, thus consider- 
164 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


ately left alone, wandered down through the garden and on 
out into the orchard where they selected a big apple tree, 
far removed from the house and sheltered by a hedge, and 
sat down. 

For a long time they devoted themselves to the tender, 
personal things natural to a young couple very much in love, 
but eventually settled down to speak of other things, of 
politics, their daily activities, their hopes, their plans. 

“Oh, Len !’’ Adele cried suddenly. “Wasn’t it exciting 
about Gabriel d’Allotti?” 

“Exciting! I don’t see anything exciting about it, but 
that they didn’t catch him months ago. Quote : The lousy 
worm.’ End quote.” 

“But that he should turn out to be a spy! We never 
dreamed of such a thing! We’ve had no end of fun with 
Helen about it.” 

“With Helen?” 

“Don’t you remember? Gabriel d’Allotti was the man 
who spent all last spring studying the American system 
with Helen. I told you about it.” 

Len, who had just started to light a cigarette, paused 
suddenly, his hand in midair. 

“The American system ! With Helen,” he repeated. 

“Oh, it was perfectly all right,” she said hastily. “There 
was nothing flirtatious about it. Helen is dead serious 
about being engaged to Brick, you know. ... Sh! It’s 
a surprise for Aunt Olympia. . . . Gabriel said he was 
gathering material for a book on the American picture and 
he got Helen to help him. Though she says he knew more 
about it than she did. They used to argue for hours about 
pacificism and armaments and military preparedness and 

165 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


all that. Why, he even warned her against Canada — in an 
indirect way. We call her the First Assistant Spy.” 

Len lit his cigarette slowly. ‘‘Did she see much of him?” 

“Oh, he was hardly ever out of our sight. He went every 
place we did — ^not with us ! He just met us there by acci- 
dent, the way you do. He came to the house three or four 
times a week, afternoons, mostly. She didn’t go out with 
him ; Brick wouldn’t like that. He used to meet her in the 
gallery of the House. Limpy and I always wanted to be on 
the Senate side to watch Uncle Lancy, but Helen had to go 
to the House so she could get pointers for Brick. He 
would meet her there and then they’d argue about things.” 

“I see.” Len stood up. “Well, beautiful, I’ve got to be 
a-flying myself down to Washington, so don’t sit there 
blinking your lashes and looking lonesome, trying to get 
my mind off the salvation of the nation. According to the 
papers. Sloppy is taking a few days off to rest his corns. 
Will you be here the rest of the week ?” 

“Till Thursday. It isn’t for Uncle Lancy ’s corns. It’s 
so Hilda can get us mended and laundered and fed. It’s 
terrible cooking in that trailer. We all have to work at 
once, you know, for the sake of the photos, and there’s 
not room for three. Our digestions pay the penalty.” 

“I’ll be over before Thursday. Thank Ollie for the 
chicken. . . . Hamburgers ! . . . And to think if it hadn’t 
been for the shortsightedness, the hopeless inefficiency of 
old Sloppy, I’d be with you on fried chicken instead of over 
there with the brats on hamburger.” 

Aunt Olympia, shrewd as she was, could not understand 
Cecil Dodd. In the beginning, though she had certainly 
made it clear that as assistant director of publicity he was 

166 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


chiefly to take care of the woman angle, he had flung him- 
self into the campaign with such assiduity that she could 
hardly get hold of him long enough to take the girls horse- 
back riding. Dave Cooper assured her the kid was doing 
all right, that there was real stuff back of his gentle smile, 
but Aunt Olympia felt that her plan had been somewhat of 
a failure. Now suddenly all this was changed. Cecil had 
become ubiquitous, constantly underfoot, as Olympia com- 
plained. When Dave, who had come to rely on him, flatly 
ordered him off on certain missions, he went, but with 
reluctance. 

*‘He’s beginning to miss the sofas,” said the Senator 
sympathetically. “That’s the worst thing about cushions — 
they become habitual.” 

“Oh, I knew he couldn’t keep it up,” grumbled Aunt 
Olympia. “These fireworks that go off with the biggest 
explosion always sputter out first.” 

Still, Dave assured her, once he was dragged away from 
the insidious comforts of Shires or the clubby attractions 
of the trailer entourage, he worked both hard and well; 
“like a dog,” Dave said; “and does what he’s told.” 

On Saturday when the cavalcade returned to Shires for 
rest and renovation, Dave said he and Cece would go to 
town and do some intensive groundwork at Headquarters. 
Cece objected; objected gently, but firmly. He said he 
needed rest and renovation as much as anybody. 

“Call up Headquarters and tell ’em we’re coming,” said 
Dave firmly. Aunt Olympia gave him his hat. 

On Sunday, except for the visit of Len Hardesty, which 
they had come to expect, the day was restfully calm and 
quiet. And then, on Monday evening, as they were having 

167 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


coffee in the cool of the east veranda, Hilda announced 
disapprovingly, 

“It's Mr. Dodd on the 'phone and he wants Miss Limpy." 

You could have knocked Aunt Olympia down with a 
feather. She said so herself, at least a hundred times in 
the days that followed. She couldn't open her mouth. She 
just sat, as if she had indeed been knocked there. 

Limpy ran back from the telephone. “Oh, Aunt Olympia, 
Cece says the Young Democrats are getting up a dance rally 
at the Fire House and if he comes and gets me and drives 
carefully and brings me back early, may I go ?" 

Aunt Olympia, still suffering from the feather-blow, 
couldn't speak. 

“Would you like to go, girls ?" asked the Senator mildly. 

“Did he invite all of us, Limpy?" asked Adele signifi- 
cantly. 

“Um — ah — well — ah — ^perhaps not specifically. I'll go 
and ask him, shall I? He only mentioned me — a small 
party, I believe." 

Aunt Olympia came to. “You can't go," she said in a 
strangled voice. “You can't go a step. And you needn't 
say ‘Aw, Uncle Lancy,' for I'm running this nursery and 
you can't go." 

“Maybe we could get Ben Baldy to drive them over, all 
of them, if they want to go," said Uncle Lancy helpfully. 

“They can't go," said Aunt Olympia. “They've danced 
enough. They’ve got to dance Friday night and Satur- 
day night and go to church Sunday and listen to you make 
three speeches and that’s enough excitement for children. 
They can’t go." 

168 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 

‘^Okay, Auntie. I didn’t really care about it. Fll tell 
him.” 

‘T’ll fire that worm,” said Aunt Olympia. *T knew there 
was a nigger in the woodpile.” 

‘'Be calm, my dear,” said the Senator soothingly. ‘Tt 
was part of his job to help amuse the girls. That’s what 
we hired him for.” 

“We didn’t hire him to amuse Limpy. She’s too young 
to be amused. You’re amusing enough for a child that age. 
I wouldn’t have believed it. You could knock me over with 
a feather.” 

“He says all right,” announced Limpy. “He doesn’t care 
about the dance. He says he’ll come over and make a report 
to the Senator.” 

“You call him right up, Del, and tell him to stay where 
he is and not interrupt our rest with any reports. You tell 
him to stay where he is and do as Dave tells him. Here 
I am, just getting somewhere with my extemporaneous 
speech and now getting all upset about Limpy. ... You call 
him right up, Del. Tell him when we want him we’ll send 
for him.” Aunt Olympia tried to still the under-chin with a 
few fierce jabs. “With a feather,” she muttered feebly. 

On Tuesday morning, a surprising announcement tempo- 
rarily distracted her from her maternal anxiety. Every 
paper in the state announced that Governor Wilkie had 
suddenly decided the time was ripe for him to make the 
most important speech of the campaign over a nation-wide 
hook-up. He was quoted as saying that “certain dramatic 
developments in Washington had impelled him to alter 
his original schedule and since the revelations he was about 

169 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


to make concerned not only their sovereign state but the 
entire nation, he had arranged for the national audience.” 

The family at Shires discussed it at length over their 
breakfast. 

‘Tt's a fake,” said Aunt Olympia. “There's nothing 
more he can say. He's said everything already, and more, 
too.” 

“Maybe he has found some new words in the diction- 
ary,” said Adele. 

“Do you suppose he'll pause for applause so the listening 
world can hear the brats wave lollypops ?” wondered Limpy. 

Before they left the table there was a call from Dave at 
Headquarters. 

“See the papers. Senator ?” 

“Yes, what's up?” 

“Nobody seems to know. But the reports are that their 
Headquarters are agog. They've hired a college professor 
to check the speech. Maybe we'd better come out and listen 
in with you so we can cock up an answer.” 

“Yes, do that. It's a good idea,” said the Senator. 

When he remarked mildly that the boys were coming out 
to listen in with them and help frame his reply. Aunt 
Olympia bounded clear out of her chair. 

“You call him right back and tell him to leave Cece 
where he is !” she cried. “I can't listen to speeches and look 
at that worm in* the same breath.” 

“Adele, that's the most perfectly mixed figure I ever 
heard in my life!” said Limpy admiringly. “It's triple! 
It's unique !” 

Aunt Olympia didn't hear her. 

“My dear,” the Senator remonstrated, “we can't hurt 

170 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


the boy’s feelings. Dave says he’s working like a dog and 
making a good job of it, too.” 

“Why shouldn’t he? What is he, anyhow, but a dog, 
a yellow dog, too !” Aunt Olympia smiled ever so faintly 
in appreciation of herself. “I tell you what to say, Del. 
You tell Dave one of them had better stay there to get 
the general reaction to the Governor’s drivel — ^and Cece can 
stay — and Dave can come.” 

That sounding reasonable, the Senator started for the 
telephone. “You needn’t tell him it’s my idea,” said 
Olympia. “I’m willing you should take the credit.” 

Everybody at Shires listened in on the radio that night 
to the Governor’s speech. Hilda had a radio in her bed- 
room. Martin had his in the tenant house. The chauffeur, 
Ben Baldy, sat in the car in the garage and used the auto 
radio. In the living room — ^when the Senator retired from 
political life, Olympia intended to call it the drawing 
room — assembled the family, two secretaries, a committee 
man and Dave Cooper. Cecil Dodd had been left, chafing, 
in town. 

The Governor began his speech with dignified and dis- 
arming mildness. He explained that he had known the 
Senator for many years, as his pastor, his friend, and, 
more recently, as Governor of his state. He made it very 
clear that, knowing him thus intimately, he could not 
brand the Senator as a wicked man, a vicious man, or a 
traitorous man. He was merely a hopeless inefficient, a 
courteous, richly comfortable gentleman farmer; one who 
knew nothing of the insidious intricacies of statecraft; one 
who could be led as a lamb to the slaughter by those wiser, 
more subtle, more farseeing, than he. He said that 

171 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


hitherto — ‘T say hitherto” — ^he repeated sonorously, the 
Senator had been saved from egregious and irreparable 
error by the firmly coercive hand of his party leaders. 

Then his voice deepened to the tone he used in evange- 
listic meetings in retailing the horrors of Hell. 

‘T say 'hitherto.’ I mean ‘hitherto.’ This time, lacking 
coercive guidance, he has fallen into error both egregious 
and irreparable. The Senator has denounced subversive, 
un-American activities. Orally, yes, he has denounced 
them. And in all fairness, my friends, I believe the Senator 
at heart is opposed to such activities. But, my friends, is 
the good Senator — and I believe him to be a good, if not a 
particularly intelligent, man — is the good Senator smart 
enough to recognize subversive activities when he meets 
them ? When he encounters them in the luxurious drawing 
rooms, at the lavish banquet tables, of Washington ? When 
he entertains them in his own home, introduces them to his 
own friends ? 

“It is this point on which we challenge the Senator! 
Who, during the last session of Congress, was one of the 
most constant and familiar visitants in the Senator’s lux- 
urious apartment in Washington ? Who ate his food, drank 
his imported wine, danced with the women of his house- 
hold ? Who was their confidant ? 

“On this point I challenge the Senator ! Last week three 
handsome, ingratiating, polished young foreigners were 
arrested in Washington as spies for foreign governments. 
They were educated men, of cultured tastes and training; 
they were well supplied with money; they wore correct 
clothes, did correct things, were gracious, suave and accept- 
able. They were spies. One of these men was Gabriel 
172 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


d’Allotti. Today, Gabriel d^Allotti languishes in jail as a 
spy, while the Senator dines on squab and rich aspics in his 
stately mansion at Maysville, while campaigning for re- 
election to his high office. 

‘Tn Washington, this Gabriel d’Allotti was one of the 
most confidential intimates of the family in their Shoreham 
apartment. The Senator was a member of the powerful 
committee on armaments. He is now on the Committee on 
Naval Affairs that deals closely with matters of national 
defense. Gabriel d’Allotti is a spy. What is the connection 
between these two ? Why did they so constantly dine and 
wine together ? 

‘‘My friends, I do not suggest — nor do I believe — that 
my old friend the Senator would deliberately betray his 
country and sell its secrets to any foreign, inimical nation. 
I know the Senator; he is my friend. He is an innocent, 
trustful, unsuspecting gentleman farmer, but sadly lacking 
in political acumen and farsightedness. Are you to trust to 
handle the intricate problems of statecraft, to represent 
you in the Senate of the United States, a man who inno- 
cently, ingenuously — and most unwisely — receives as his 
intimate a common spy? On these points, I challenge the 
Senator ! Good night, and thank you.’’ 

The Senator was a good deal surprised. Olympia, scar- 
let with rage, was at work on her under-chin. Adele and 
Limpy, who had become accustomed to charges and 
counter-charges and knew there was nothing in them, 
snickered a little. But Helen, who had turned dead white, 
twisted her slim hands nervously in her lap. 

“Who’s the wop? Ever hear of him?” asked Dave 
briskly. 


173 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


“Why, the girls have been talking about him! Yes, I 
must have met him.” 

“He never had dinner at our house in his life I He just 
came to call,” shouted Aunt Olympia. 

“How’d he get in?” persisted Dave. 

“I invited him,” said Olympia angrily. “He asked for it 
and I invited him.” 

“Oh, Uncle Lancy, it’s — ^all — my fault!” Helen stam- 
mered. 

“Not at all, not at all, my dear,” said the Senator sooth- 
ingly. “Everybody goes everywhere in Washington. Any- 
body calls on anybody. There’s no crime in that.” 

“He said he was — ^writing a book,” said Helen weakly. 

“Writing a book covers a multitude of spies,” said 
Olympia. 

“Uncle Lancy, I — feel just terribly,” wailed Helen. 

“Terribly, my dear? What nonsense! There’s nothing 
to feel terribly about. It doesn’t mean anything. He can’t 
substantiate his charges. It’s just another red herring he’s 
got hold of. It doesn’t mean a thing.” 

“Oh, yes, it does,” said Olympia grimly. “It means 
that louse, Len Hardesty, is buckling down to business and 
we’ve got to mind our P’s and Q’s. He wrote that speech 
from beginning to end.” 

“Of course,” said the Senator. “And Dave’ll write me 
one tomorrow that will show them up in great shape. They 
can look at my record. I’m clean — on that score, anyhow. 
Everybody is entertained in Washington, and you can’t 
go around at tea tables sorting sheep from goats. . . . Why, 
that fellow d’Allotti has even horned into the White House. 
Don’t worry, my dear. Dave will take care of it.” 

174 


Chapter IX 


The girls, reassured by the Senator’s unconcern, dismissed 
it from their minds, took magazines and candy and went 
to bed. Dave was not at all disturbed about it. 

“We can laugh it off,” he said cheerfully. “After all, 
they can’t expect a senator to hire a bouncer for his tea 
table.” 

“Not on ten thousand a year anyhow I” said Olympia. 
“Though I’ve often wanted one. And it would be money 
better spent than most.” 

“Anybody who’s been received at the White House, at 
Secretary Hull’s, and at Secretary Roper’s, particularly, is 
good enough for our constituents,” said Dave. “I’ll get 
along to town and get ready.” 

But a secretary was kept busy at the telephone until two 
o’clock in the morning answering the anxious queries that 
came in. 

“Yes, the Senator heard the speech. No, he is not at all 
disturbed by it. Yes, of course, they’ve met d’Allotti. 
Everybody in Washington has met him. He’s been at the 
White House time and again, and at the Hulls’ and the 
Ropers’ and all the best places. It’s a frame-up. The Sena- 
tor says it’s a red herring.” 

During their days of rest between tours, the Senator 
and Aunt Olympia had their breakfast, along with the 
morning papers, served to them in bed. The Senator often 
received early reporters there too, but by eleven in the 

175 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 

morning they were dressed and downstairs, ready for the 
influx. 

Hilda laid a table on the east porch for the girls and 
they straggled down whenever they felt inclined, being 
served as they came. Usually they sat for an hour or 
more, chatting, sipping coffee, discussing the things three 
sisters would discuss. Often before they had finished Aunt 
Olympia joined them for a final cup of coffee. 

On Wednesday morning, after the Governor’s speech, 
they had hardly started their breakfast when suddenly 
Aunt Olympia bounded onto the porch. She was in her 
dressing gown, very red of face, and had not taken time 
to remove the net from her permanent wave ; nor to pow- 
der, although usually most punctilious about her appear- 
ance before the girls. The Senator, his bathrobe draped 
not too neatly about him, his thin hair standing up un- 
brushed on a very pink head, was close at her heels. 

“Helen,” she said abruptly, “what in the world did you 
tell that man ?” 

Helen looked mildly startled. “What man?” 

Limpy spoke up quickly. “According to my English 
grammar, in which I was very good and never flunked, one 
can’t just say ‘that man’; one has to give him an antece- 
dent.” 

“I’d like mighty well to know his antecedents,” said Aunt 
Olympia. “It would be a dime thriller, at least.” 

“My dear, don’t be abrupt,” said the Senator placatingly. 
“Never be abrupt.” 

“What man. Aunt Olympia?” asked Helen. 

Hilda came out with a fresh pot of coffee but Aunt 
Olympia waved her away with the armful of newspapers 
176 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


she carried, which the girls had overlooked. She sat down 
at the table, heavily, shoving away the plates and silver, and 
laid the papers before her. 

“That dastardly varmint, Gabriel d'Allotti.” 

“Now, my dear, be reasonable. Remember that every 
nation has spies. We have spies. Remember Nathan Hale. 
Remember. . . 

“Remember fiddlesticks! If we have spies, why don’t 
they ever find anything out? . . . And if we have got spies, 
they do their spying like gentlemen and don’t go worming 
in on innocent young girls. . . . Maybe that’s why they 
never find anything out,” she admitted more moderately. 

“Gabriel d’Allotti 1” repeated Helen. “Why, I didn’t tell 
him anything I He knew lots more than I did. I couldn’t 
tell him anything. I don’t know anything.” 

“There you see, my dear 1 Just as I said. She doesn’t 
know anything,” said the Senator triumphantly. 

Aunt Olympia looked up from the papers. Her eyes 
went first to Limpy, then to Adele and then to Helen. The 
three of them sat like one piece of sculpture, white of face, 
wide-eyed, motionless. Tears came to Olympia’s eyes. 
Better betray the nation (and let the army save it, she 
thought treacherously) than lose these girls. 

“I didn’t mean to startle you, Helen,” she said cheer- 
fully. “Del, ring for hot coffee. . . . It’s nothing to worry 
about, girls. Limpy, you’d better eat your breakfast ; your 
toast is getting cold. There’s nothing to it, of course, 
Helen; we know that.” 

“What is it ?” Helen asked, with white lips. “What has 
happened ?” 

“Oh, you know how those foreigners are! They love 

177 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


the limelight, even when they’re in jail. Not like us Ameri- 
cans who commit our crimes confidentially. ... Fill their 
cups, Hilda ! Del’s, too. ... You see, Helen, it seems he 
told the press that he got his information from you — ” 

“From me!” 

“He did not !” cried Limpy passionately. 

“Of course not, darling. But naturally the papers are 
making quite a splurge of it. They have your pictures 
and — quite a lot of dope about you, and about us, too, for 
that matter. They’ve even got some pictures of him juxta- 
posed among you ; fakes, of course, but it gives the effect. 
He told the press it was you who told him about our na- 
tional defenses.” 

“But I don’t know a thing about our national defenses,” 
cried Helen. “Except what I asked Uncle Lancy.” 

“I’d like to wring Len Hardesty’s neck,” said Aunt 
Olympia. “This is what I call a blow below the belt.” 

“Len Hardesty.” Adele looked suddenly sick. “Aunt 
Olympia — do you think Len — did this — to my sister ?” 

“Oh, naturally,” said Aunt Olympia philosophically. 
“That’s his business. But he never seemed to notice 
Helen — ^he never paid any attention to her or what she was 
doing. I didn’t suppose he even knew about it. Those lousy 
newspapermen 1 They know everything. Can’t keep their 
minds on one girl— even a beauty — ^got to be nosing into 
everything 1” 

Adele stood up. She looked dazed. “I told him,” she 
said faintly. “I told him Sunday. I thought it was — 
funny.” 

“You told him Sunday, Adele? . . . Oh, that’s it, then! 
He cocked up that speech and sicked the A.P. onto us.” 
178 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


‘‘But Aunt Olympia — ^would — ^he — do that?^’ Adele 
stammered. And her face was so white and anguished, her 
wide eyes had turned to such midnight darkness, that Aunt 
Olympia’s heart went out to her. 

“It’s his job, my dear, and a job’s a job.” 

Hilda appeared in the door. “It’s Mr. Hardesty, looking 
like the wrath of God and if he didn’t sleep in those clothes 
then I’m no laundress.” 

Adele started swiftly for the side door. 

“Don’t go, my dear,” said the Senator gently. “It’s 
always good politics to hear both sides.” 

Adele turned obediently and went to the window and 
stood with her back to the room, to the door Len Hardesty 
would enter, staring out into the garden with eyes that saw 
nothing. Helen and Limpy stood up, rigid, white of face, 
as Len Hardesty came in. Aunt Olympia poured herself a 
cup of coffee. The Senator patted his lips with a napkin, 
though he had eaten nothing. 

“Hello, Len,” he said. “Bring some hot coffee, Hilda. 
Sit down, Len.” 

“The wrath of God” well described him. He was pale. 
He had not shaved. His eyes were black and dark-circled. 
He glanced just once at Adele’s slim back silhouetted 
against the windows. 

“Well, there’s the devil to pay now,” he said dejectedly. 

“Well, pay him!” said Olympia crisply. “You’ve got 
your fingers on his purse-strings, haven’t you?” 

“Oh, I’m paying and don’t think I’m not,” he said dog- 
gedly. “Senator, I — I give you my word, I never antici- 
pated this.” 

“Was it a nightmare ?” asked Aunt Olympia. 


179 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


“Oh, I know I should have realized I was stirring up a 
hornet's nest, but we've been in such a damned hole over 
the whole mess — I just thought it would be one more jack- 
in-the-box from the bag of tricks." 

“You wrote that speech, Len Hardesty, and don't you 
deny it." 

“I don't deny it. And that's all I did do. I thought maybe 
it would stir up a little local fuss and maybe entice a few 
rabidly Americanistic partisans, and God knows we need 
them. I thought it would shut the Senator up on sub- 
versive activities, which the Governor doesn't know a 
tinker's damn about." 

“If that's all you did, how about these papers?'^ de- 
manded Aunt Olympia. 

“The dirty skunk ! d'Allotti, I mean. It suddenly dawned 
on him that if he could drag you into it. Senator, you'd 
get him out to clear your own skirts. Use your pull with 
the administration. He called the newsmen after I left. A 
pal down there tipped me off and I flew back down. I've 
worked like a devil on it but I couldn't stop it." 

“You'd better have a drink, Len," said the Senator 
kindly. “You look all in. Ring, Ollie." 

“Scotch and soda," he said briefly. 

“You'd better have ham and eggs. Bring him some 
food, Hilda. After all, we can't starve snakes on our very 
doorstep. Give us a bad press." 

“It's not irreparable, even yet. Senator," said Len Har- 
desty. “Now if you had a good publicity man — like me, 
for instance — " 

“He's on his way out here, now," said the Senator. 
“Cece, too. We 'phoned him." 

180 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


‘‘He’ll work out the details. And if he’s good enough, 
he can even make capital of it. Of course, he’ll get you a 
nation-wide hook-up to answer the charges. He will not let 
you make any statements until you have spoken straight to 
the nation. He will have you start off by saying that from 
the beginning of time it has been the practice of cowards 
and curs to hide behind the skirts of a woman — prefer- 
ably, a young and pretty woman.” 

“Make a note of that, Limpy,” said Aunt Olympia 
eagerly. “He’s got something there.” 

“I can’t,” said Limpy hoarsely, between clenched teeth. 
“If I let go of myself I’ll — ^go to pieces — and scream — 
and throw things — ” 

Aunt Olympia looked at her. “Don’t you feel well, 
Limpy?” she wailed anxiously. “You — look — very — 
strange! You’d better take something. Call a doctor, Del! 
Do something. Can’t you see the child’s sick ?” 

“Sit down, kid,” said Len Hardesty. “And let go! . . . 
Didn’t I tell you in the beginning you had to learn to take 
it?” He put a chair behind her. “Just let go and sit 
down.” 

Limpy dropped into the chair. “I — could — ^kill you,” she 
whispered. 

“Yes, I suppose you could. Well, you don’t feel as badly 
as I do. I’d better have another Scotch and soda, Gus- 
tavus.” 

“And if we’ve got any more ground glass you might put 
in a tablespoonful,” said Aunt Olympia. 

“Sure, bring it along. I’d like it. . . . Now, in the second 
place, after holding him up to public scorn for trying to 
ease out behind a petticoat, you will adroitly mention that 

181 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 

his purpose is to get you to use your influence to get him 
out of the jam” 

‘‘Get him out! Fd get him into the electric chair, if I 
could 

“Work that in, in your own suave and diplomatic lan- 
guage. You will bring out that he was received at all the 
best houses in Washington, and if you meet a man at the 
home of the President or a cabinet member, you cannot 
very well ask if he is a spy. You’ll use your record — ^which 
is okay, for I’ve been combing it myself. Of course, you 
can prove that Helen didn’t show him any papers because 
you never took any home with you and they were locked 
up. This really should make a sort of martyr out of you 
and win you any number of votes. You know voters.” 

“But how about me?” asked Helen faintly. “What does 
it do to me, Len ?” 

Len looked at her. Helen looked more anguished. Aunt 
Olympia thought, than she had at the funeral so long ago. 

“It’s a tough break, Helen,” he said. “You’ve just got 
to keep your head up and take it on the chin. He’s using 
you as a cover-up and everybody will know it. You didn’t 
tell him anything, and stick to it. You merely met him.” 

“She couldn’t tell him anything confidential,” said the 
Senator stoutly. “For I never told her anything. Most of 
it was so technical I didn’t really understand it myself. I 
just believe we ought to have strong defense; and any- 
thing they said was for better defense, I was in favor of.” 

“Helen,” said Len, diffidently, “do you mind — ^telling us 
about — ^the map you gave him?” 

“Map ! I never gave him a map 1” 

“She couldn’t! I haven’t got a map myself.” 

182 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


“He says you gave him a map of our national defenses.” 

“She never had a map!” 

“He couldn’t possibly mean that relief map of the United 
States, could he? — Don’t you remember, Uncle Lancy? I 
asked you about it. He brought the map to show how vul- 
nerable we are and I asked you.” 

“Was it your map, Helen ?” 

“No, he brought it. He marked all our vulnerable points 
with a red pencil. And I asked you. Uncle Lancy, and you 
said the Mexican border was defended, and the Atlantic 
seaboard had strings of defenses all across the country and 
that all the shipbuilding places were fortified, and Boston 
and Manhattan and Washington. Don’t you remember? 
I marked them with a blue pencil.” 

“And you gave him the map?” 

“No. After we had it marked, he rolled it up to take 
along and I said I wanted it to send — as a sort of souvenir. 
I kept it.” 

“Have you got it?” 

“Yes. It’s up in my desk.” 

“Will you get it?” 

“Yes, of course.” 

Aunt Olympia turned to Limpy. “Do you feel better, 
darling ? Do you want an aspirin ?” 

“No. I just want a good sharp stiletto with a poisoned 
point. Helen is so — good — ” 

“Sow the wind and reap the whirlwind,” said Len 
moodily. “That’s what I did.” 

“Well, experience is a good thing,” said the Senator 
sympathetically. “I know I’ve learned a lot that way.” 

“Here is the map,” said Helen. “See, Uncle Lancy? 

183 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


Gabriel drew the blue lines to show where we are vulner- 
able. I didn't know anything about it myself and you told 
me about defending the shipyards and the cities and the 
harbors — " 

The Senator examined the map with two pairs of glasses. 
‘‘Dear me, Helen, you did a very bad job of it," he said 
reprovingly. “You must have those forts two hundred 
miles off. And those submarine bases — tch, tch, tch !" 

“I didn’t try to be accurate," said Helen. “I didn’t know 
enough, in the first place. We weren’t being technical about 
it. But when he was criticizing our unpreparedness, I just 
boastfully drew red lines around every city I could think 
of." 

“Is anything of secret nature indicated on this map?" 
asked Len. 

“Lord, no," said the Senator with unwonted profanity. 
“There’s not only nothing secret ; there’s nothing right. I’m 
afraid I didn’t make myself very clear, Helen." 

“Yes, you did. Uncle Lancy; but you weren’t trying to 
be explicit and I didn’t think it made any difference whether 
I put the red marks north or south, or even if I missed the 
town entirely; we were laughing; it was just a joke — 
then !" she added, pathetically. 

“You can give photostatic copies of this map to the 
press," suggested Len Hardesty. “Not till after your 
speech. That’s the highlight. And rest assured, the nation’ll 
be on the air, from White House down to white wings. . . . 
It’s more easily reparable for you — ^than for me," he said 
with another glance at Adele’s silhouette before the win- 
dow. “Well, I’ll be getting along. Senator. I’m sorry. 
We’re reduced to snatching at straws ; I thought this was a 
184 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


straw and snatched at it; I didn’t realize it was tied to 
dynamite.” 

The Senator held out his hand. “Good-by, Len. It was 
a bad break. You look thin. Doesn’t Brother Wilkie see 
that you get your three squares a day?” 

“You look terrible,” said Aunt Olympia cheerfully. 
“When Hilda says you look like the wrath of God, you 
can rest assured you look pretty bad.” 

“You’re a couple of swell sports,” he said moodily. 
“You’ve ruined the whole campaign for me. Remember 
how I used to love campaigns? Not any more! Politics 
is hell.” 


185 


Chapter X 


It seemed to Aunt 0l5nnpia that she had been called upon 
that day to endure more than could reasonably be expected 
even of a president’s wife. But the day was not over. She 
had no more than seen them all comfortably relaxed and 
settled down when Dave Cooper arrived with Cecil Dodd. 
Dave looked disconcerted, almost disheveled. Before he 
could say a word, Cecil Dodd crossed debonairely to 
Limpy’s chair, smiling, and said, 

“Hello, Limpy ! I brought you a present !” 

Aunt Olympia’s backbone stiffened starchily. 

“A present for me, Cece? How nice!” said Limpy. 

“Limpy’s too young to be receiving presents,” inter- 
rupted Aunt Olympia. “She’s not of age yet.” 

“She’s not too young to be receiving this,” said Cecil 
Dodd. “This is a political present. Any Slopshire-for- 
Senator fan can receive political presents. Look, Limpy. 
It’s a little Slopshire pin. I had it made to order.” 

“Let me see that pin!” said Olympia angrily. “What 
does it say on there? That doesn’t look like Vote-for- 
Slopshire to me !” 

“Oh, there wasn’t room for all that!” explained Cecil 
Dodd. “I had to cut it down to Slopshire, or it wouldn’t 
go on. And I didn’t think enamel would look good on 
platinum, so I just had it engraved.” 

“Look at this, Del,” said Olympia. “If those are dia- 

186 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


monds around the edge of it, Limpy can’t have it till I pry 
them out.” 

‘‘Aw, Uncle Lancy!” wailed Limpy. 

The Senator put on his glasses. “They don’t look like 
diamonds to me,” he said firmly. 

“They’re brilliants,” said Cecil hastily. 

“Certainly,” said the Senator. “I could see that. And if 
they are diamonds, they’re only chip diamonds. Cece says 
they’re brilliants.” 

“Well, what’s a diamond but a brilliant?” demanded 
Aunt Olympia. 

“Rhinestones are brilliants,” said Adele helpfully. 

“Sure ! Brilliant rhinestones !” corroborated Cecil Dodd. 

“Del Slopshire— ” 

“Uncle Lancy !” from Limpy. 

“I feel very much honored to have little Limpy flashing 
through the campaign in a Slopshire pin,” said the Senator 
determinedly. 

“Sure ! Let me pin it on your shoulder, Limpy !” 

Before the rapt eyes of the rest of the family, the out- 
raged ones of Aunt Olympia, with Limpy smiling pleased 
approval, Cecil Dodd deftly attached the tiny pin to the 
shoulder of her frock and smiled down into her face. 

“Lord, it’s been lonesome,” he said devoutly. “I thought 
we’d never get back.” 

“Lonesome !” boomed Aunt Olympia irritably. “Lone- 
some in the thick of a political campaign? Lonesome while 
the Senator is being accused of high treason and likely to 
be knifed at the polls if not strung from a gibbet? Of all 
times and places to be lonesome, that beats anything I ever 
heard!” 


187 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


‘T hope you didn’t have a good time while I was gone,” 
said Cecil. 

Limpy was slightly disconcerted. ‘‘A good time ? Oh — I 
can’t remember exactly what we did. ... I know we had a 
lot of trouble. . . . No, we didn’t have a good time at all, 
Cece.” 

‘Tut him to work,” said Olympia, waving the Senator 
to take him away. “And if he’s got money to go around 
buying platinum pins and — brilliants — ^we can cut down on 
our expenses by reducing his salary. . . . Damn Len 
Hardesty, anyhow!” 

The Senator had no trouble taking care of the spy chal- 
lenge. There was no one, either Democrat or Republican, 
who could seriously push the charge, for Gabriel d’Allotti 
had been received ever)where. The Senator did not stop 
with citing his record, virtually from the cradle to the 
trailer of ’38, with documentary evidence to support his 
claims. He went further. He demanded a complete, in- 
quisitorial investigation of the entire case, and wrote the 
Department of Justice offering himself to be a witness, 
along with every other member of his household from 
Hilda up. 

The Opposition was obliged to drop the issue, but their 
fingers were already slightly burned. As for Helen, there 
was no more pleasure in the campaign for her. She had 
become terrified of the whole business. She wrote fran- 
tically to Brick imploring him to withdraw from the rotten 
mess before it was too late. And she was not greatly re- 
assured by his loyal declaration that she had nothing to 
fear : they didn’t play politics that way in Iowa. 

188 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


The campaign was spoiled for Adele, too. She wrote 
Len Hardesty a brief note. 

can't see you or speak to you again, Len, until it is all 
over. I try not to think of you, hut that is too hard. When 
it is over, if you feel the same, we will try to talk it through 
and see where we stand. But I simply can't see you. I 
couldn't draw a free breath in your presence until Uncle 
Lancy has either won or been defeated." 

Aunt Olympia remonstrated with her, reminding her 
that this was Len's job and he had to do the best he could; 
reminded her, too, that his contract with the Governor 
would be up this year, and the Senator could use him in 
’44. Adele was gently obdurate. 

Len wrote to her and she read the letters again and 
again, and kept them, but she made no answer. When he 
saw any member of the household, or when he called over 
the telephone to get news of them, he had one invariable 
message for Adele : 

‘‘Tell her it’s nearly over, and I feel the same.” 

When the message was passed on to Adele, tears came to 
her eyes and she got up and left the room. But she did not 
weaken. 

Aunt Olympia was none too happy, either. She couldn’t 
turn her usual robust enthusiasm into the campaign because 
she had to watch Limpy; rather, she had to watch Cecil 
Dodd. It seemed to her as a simple act of loyalty he might 
have postponed his admiration until after the election. She 
even suspected, bitterly, that he was working for the Oppo- 

189 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


sition; it would be like Len Hardesty to bribe him to do 
this just to get her mind off the campaign. 

^^Do you like that creature, Limpy?’’ she asked hope- 
fully. 

‘‘Oh, sure, I like him. He’s all right. Yes, I like him.” 

“I mean, do you like him better than anybody else?” per- 
sisted Aunt Olympia. 

“Oh, no, of course not ! I like Helen and Adele and you 
and Uncle Lancy best; and I like our grocery man back 
home and I’ll like Len Hardesty again as soon as Adele gets 
over being mad at him. I like Dave and Martin and Hilda 
and I don’t really mind Brother Wilkie, though I don’t care 
much for the brats.” 

The casualness of this rather relieved Aunt Olympia. 
After all, it could not be very serious so long as Limpy’s 
affections were widely disseminated. Still, she knew men. 
And that gentle, soft-voiced type — ^as she knew from the 
Senator — ^was the most obdurate when it made up its 
mind. If Cecil Dodd had made up his mind to think of 
Limpy, he was going to think of her. It was a cursed bad 
break for Aunt Olympia, because getting him was her 
idea. But she had hired him only to amuse Adele and par- 
ticularly to make Len Hardesty jealous and give him a bad 
summer. This generation was certainly going to the dogs ! 
There was the angelic Helen, not only mixed up with a de- 
livery boy, but involved with a spy ; there was the beauteous 
Adele stubbornly banishing a good newspaperman like 
Len Hardesty when he was only doing his job as he 
saw it; and now here was that child, that infant, Limpy, 
eating pecans and being cradle-snatched right under her 
eyes. 

190 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


The girls teased Limpy, who, after the first flush of con- 
fusion, rather enjoyed it. 

‘T can't understand why you should be surprised," she 
said loftily. ‘T had admirers at home, didn’t I ? Who got 
Carl Walker to sing in the choir — best tenor we ever had ? 
You’d think I was some beldame hobbling around on a tin 
trumpet.’’ 

When Aunt Olympia couldn’t stand it another minute 
she asked the girls confidentially to drop the subject. '‘For 
Limpy ’s own good,’’ she assured them. “I don’t want her 
to get her mind set on him.’’ 

“She’s used to being teased,’’ the girls told her. “We all 
are. Teasing doesn’t mean a thing to us.’’ 

“But if we keep dangling him before her eyes she may 
get to thinking of him,’’ pleaded Aunt Olympia. “Besides, 
it upsets me. If we don’t get rid of that damned button 
I’m apt to go straight to the polls and vote for Brother 
Wilkie.’’ 

The girls considerately dropped the subject. But there 
was no dropping Cecil Dodd. As the campaign grew hotter, 
it was inevitable that he should be with them almost con- 
stantly. And even when Aunt Olympia did connive to send 
him off on quite distant missions, he returned so soon — 
with favorable reports of his activities — that Aunt Olym- 
pia swore he had just hidden behind a tree for five or ten 
minutes. 

If she could have concentrated all her forces on the case, 
and they were great. Aunt Olympia believed she could have 
handled it. But she was constantly being caught up in some 
maelstrom that required her personal attention. This was 
what made it hard. 


191 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


During September there was a succession of deluging 
rains, but the campaign had to go on. She bought raincoats 
with matching umbrellas and galoshes for the girls and 
made them drink hot lemonade every night. Even in rain- 
coats, they photographed well. She bought aspirin for the 
Senator — ^who believed in it — ^by the dozen boxes. 

When at last it appeared that the sun was to shine again 
they took the trail back to Shires, to get their clothes and 
bedding thoroughly dried out and laundered. 

* There’s no place like home to dry out,” she remarked 
contentedly. 

‘‘Did you say dry out or dry up ?” asked Limpy. 

Aunt Olympia laughed good-naturedly. “No hope of 
drying up till the election,” she said. “We’re lucky even to 
get dried out.” 

On the next morning, a committee representing the 
United Ladies’ Aid Societies of the entire state called on 
the Senator with a petition. They demanded that he make 
an open declaration as to where he stood on prohibition. 
Brother Wilkie had come out flat-footedly for the repeal 
of repeal, and it was their duty as Christian women, wives 
and mothers, to ascertain the Senator’s position. 

Aunt Olympia received the petition and promised to call 
it to the Senator’s attention at once. 

“I’m sorry it quit raining,” she said to the girls bitterly. 
“They’re so dry they’d melt away like dust in a good rain- 
storm. No moderation, that’s the trouble with the temper- 
ance crowd. Even the weather’s not temperate. First it’s a 
deluge and then it’s a drought of prohibition.” 

“He’ll have to say something,” said Helen. “I’m an old 
Aider myself, you know, and we’re just rabid on Prohibi- 
192 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


tion. And you take us and the W.C.T.U. together and 
weTe quite a crowd.’’ 

“Oh, he’ll make them a speech,” said Aunt Olympia. 
“He’s a good churchman, they know that. I could write 
his speech myself.” 

“But what in the world can he say. Aunt Olympia? 
Brother Wilkie doesn’t drink and doesn’t serve liquor. It’s 
easy for him.” 

“It’s easy for the Senator, too. You can say just as 
much beating around the bush as you can face to face.” 

“Perhaps he’d better ignore it.” 

“Oh, no! Nothing makes women so mad as being ig- 
nored. They’d never forgive him for that. He won’t have 
to say much. It’s what he doesn’t say will turn the trick.” 

The Senator answered the petition over the radio, on 
Wednesday, after prayer meeting, it being well publicized 
that he did not wish his talk to interfere with church serv- 
ices. The microphone was set up in his cozy library and 
there were photographers present to get pictures of him 
with his wife and pretty nieces grouped about him; even 
Hilda was brought into the picture, sitting dourly in the 
rear to hear his message on temperance and morals. They 
had the room well set for those pictures, carefully removing 
the siphon and the tray of glasses, even taking away the 
girls’ lemonade, since lemonade photographs like a Tom 
Collins. Aunt Olympia extinguished her cigarette, too, and 
Hilda hid the ash trays. 

The Senator addressed himself to his brothers and 
sisters of the churches of their beloved and sovereign state. 
He called detailed and statistical attention to his record as a 
churchman, going back to his childhood when he had 

193 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


signed the pledge at his mother^s knee ; he referred them to 
his public speeches, his published articles and interviews, 
his vote record in the Senate, as proof of his loyal and 
wholehearted support of any movement, from the greatest 
to the least, that would tend to make ours the most temper- 
ate, most law-abiding, most Christian nation in the world. 

‘T have ever been found,” he declared ringingly, “and 
will ever be found in future, in the front ranks of that 
great army waging unceasing war against intemperance. It 
is only through temperance that we can safeguard our 
homes, protect our innocent children. I solemnly pledge 
myself to do in future as I have in the past: to vote, to 
labor and to pray for increasingly stricter enforcement of 
any and all regulations designed to curb and control that 
rampant monster. Demon Rum ; and for the total elimina- 
tion of those cesspools of vice and iniquity which, alas, too 
often follow in its wake. 

“My Brothers and Sisters of the Church, I must, in 
answer to inquiries, go specifically on record on another 
point. It is true, as quoted, that I have been closely identi- 
fied with many church and religious organizations ; I have 
held church offices ; I have served as a delegate to church 
conferences, have spoken at their clubs and conventions. I 
have done this as an act of service to my fellow men and to 
my Maker. I have never been paid for my service to the 
church, nor received one penny from it even for expenses. 
I have paid my own expenses. For thirty years I have been 
a regular contributor to all church activities, both at home 
and abroad. 

“I take no credit for any of this. I have done it as a 
matter of Christian duty and civic pride. I believe in the 
194 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


church. I believe in its activities and respect its ideals. I 
am happy to contribute in my small way to its maintenance. 
But there have been rumors spread — and rumors do not 
arise without instigation — ^that I have received a price for 
my services, and that I utilize my religious connections for 
political advancement. I declare — ^nay, I take public oath — 
that such a statement is a deliberate and despicable false- 
hood. 

^‘From the church I receive spiritual assistance only; and 
in return, I deem it a privilege to give what I can of my 
material substance and my practical service. I have never 
made money out of the church; I do not resort to the 
church for aid in political propaganda. To me, it is sacredly 
reserved for worship. My affiliation with it is spiritual, not 
political.” 

Aunt Olympia purred contentedly. ‘T’d like to see Len 
Hardesty^s face now,” she said. 

‘Tt will hold all but the fanatics,” said Dave critically. 
‘‘And there’s no holding them anyhow.” 

“Well, I know one thing,” said Aunt Olympia : “if the 
state Aids come out publicly and endorse the Governor, I’ll 
drop a lighted cigarette on that carpet they held me up 
for. . . . Exclusive of refreshments.” 

Brother Wilkie was making open and flagrant appeal for 
the church vote, regardless of party affiliation. Getting into 
his stride, he no longer limited himself to occupying pulpits 
as a guest preacher on Sunday mornings. He went to 
prayer meeting; visited missionary societies; attended 
church picnics and chicken suppers and ice cream festivals ; 
he was even introduced for a few remarks at Sunday 
Schools (the teachers and Bible Classes being old enough 

195 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


to vote, and the youngsters apt to carry his message home, 
as he invariably suggested). His slogan had become: 
CHRISTIANS TO CONTROL AMERICA. 

“You’d think Del was some sort of a heathen,” said 
Aunt 01)mipia. “And Fm not sure but in some ways he is,” 
she added thoughtfully. “Seems to me even a heathen 
would have the guts to speak to that worm about his con- 
duct.” 

“My dear,” remonstrated the Senator, “that is one 
thing that can’t be done in any sort of political circles — even 
Republican.” 

“What can’t be done ?” 

“Speaking to your opponent about his conduct.” 

“Who’s talking about your opponent ? I’m talking about 
Cece Dodd. I want you to tell him to keep away from here. 
I’ve got trouble enough.” 

“My dear, he was supposed to stay with us.. [That’s what 
you hired him for, wasn’t it ?” 

“Well, I didn’t hire him to go calf-eyed over Limpy. 
Damn men, anyhow ! You tell him to quit looking at Limpy. 
Every time I glance up I see him looking at Limpy. It’s 
getting on my nerves. You tell him to stop it.” 

“My dear,” he said in a pained voice, “I can’t do that. 
He isn’t a boy, you know. He’s doing a good job. You 
can’t tell a man what he’s to look at, even if he’s working 
for you. They’d have me up before Wages and Hours in 
no time.” 

“Do you see any sense paying a man wages to spend his 
hours looking at — at an — infant? Is that what the 
N.L.R.B. stands for?” 

“My dear, you’re making too much of this. Limpy is 
196 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


only a child. And a nice child. I like to look at her myself. 
She^s a mere child.” 

‘‘You silly dunce ! Don’t you know children aren’t what 
they used to be ? They don’t wait these days to put their hair 
down and their skirts up — I mean the other way round — 
to be grown up. Children are women now — and in the 
market, too — ^before they’ve entirely laid off diapers.” 

Thus frustrated on every hand, Olympia conceived the 
notion of dropping a few delicate hints herself. She 
couldn’t come right out in the open about it, because she 
realized that even if Limpy herself felt no personal interest 
in Cecil, she did enjoy being admired, and open opposition 
would arouse her and her sisters with her to her own de- 
fense. So Olympia decided to be diplomatic. 

“Well, Cece,” she began pleasantly, when she finally 
cornered him alone, “what do you think of our girls ?” 

“I think they’re lovely,” he said, with a warm smile; 
maudlin, Olympia called it. “Just lovely, in fact. When I 
think of poor Len stuck with those brats, I think I struck 
it pretty lucky.” 

Olympia ground her teeth, but silently. 

“Isn’t Adele beautiful?” she asked, leading him on. 

“They all are,” he said generously. “Every one of 
them.” 

“Adele’s the most beautiful and you can’t deny it,” she 
persisted, doggedly. 

“I don’t agree with you.” He lighted a cigarette, looking 
worldly and sophisticated. “Beauty, you know, is entirely 
a matter of taste.” 

“It is not !” she said rudely. “It’s a matter of complexion 
and features and hair. And it may interest you to know 

197 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


that all real authorities on beauty — ^artists and sculptors 
and — real authorities — say Adele is far and away the most 
beautiful.” 

“Oh, perhaps, from their point of view,” he conceded. 
“Personally, I don’t agree with them.” 

“Well, what’s wrong with her looks, you silly dunce?” 
she demanded irritably. 

“Nothing. Nothing’s wrong with them. Her looks are 
lovely. But in my opinion, her kind of beauty is — ^well, 
it’s not natural. It’s not spontaneous. It looks artificial, 
almost theatrical.” 

Aunt Olympia could hardly believe her ears. She was 
speechless. 

“Now, you take beauty — ^well, like Limpy’s for in- 
stance,” he said, warming to his subject. “Now Limpy’s 
beauty is honest and clean-cut and straightforward. There’s 
nothing stagy about it. It’s just plain, unvarnished, straight- 
to-the-heart beauty.” 

“Adele’s not varnished, either,” she said feebly. “I’ve 
seen her come straight from her bath. I’ve watched her 
make up. I know what I’m talking about.” 

“Oh, probably not,” he said indifferently, “But the effect 
is the same. It looks made-up. Limpy’s different.” 

“Do you realize,” began Olympia, half-choking, “that 
Limpy is — is — a perfect — infant? A mere child?” 

“To a man of my age and — general experience,” he said 
gently, “there is nothing in the world so beautiful as a 
brave, glowing little bud just blossoming out to — ” he 
caught himself quickly — “to the sun,” he finished. 

Aunt Olympia got up and walked straight out of the 

198 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


room. She had to. She was afraid if she remained she 
would choke him with her bare hands and that would end 
the campaign in a hurry. 

‘Tt'll probably end up by my doing it anyhow,” she told 
the Senator savagely. ‘'But I^m making every effort to 
wait till after the election.” 

“You can’t really blame him, my dear, for liking the 
child’s looks,” he argued mildly. “Everybody likes her 
looks. You know, Ollie, to tell the truth,” he continued 
hesitantly, “I like her looks better than Adele’s myself.” 

Olympia groaned. That was the gall and wormwood of 
it. She did, too. 

Her distress was so great that the Senator decided to 
speak to Cecil himself, without telling her anything about 
it; for the Senator was devoted to Olympia and would 
humiliate himself to almost any depth to spare her distress. 
He had Cecil sent up to his library and closed the door. 

“See here, Cecil,” he began, matter-of-factly ; “I want 
you to stop flirting with Limpy.” 

Cecil rose right up out of his chair to answer that. 
‘‘Flirting with Limpy, sir 1 I’m not flirting with Limpy !” 

“You’re not ! You’re not flirting with Limpy? . . . Well, 
^hat do you call it?” 

“I don’t call it anything, sir. But I know it isn’t flirting. 
I’m crazy about Limpy.” 

“Well, stop it ! Her aunt and I will positively not permit 
anybody to be crazy about Limpy until — after the election.” 

“I wouldn’t dream of flirting with Limpy,” said Cecil, 
aggrievedly. “Any time. The election has nothing to do 
with it.” 


199 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


‘Well, you’ve got her aunt all upset about it and we 
can’t worry about Limpy and win an electron at the same 
time.” 

“But what have I done, Senator? I’ve been very care- 
ful. ... I only gave her that pin — and everybody wears 
Sloppy pins. . . . And Mrs. Slopshire asked me to be nice 
to the girls.” 

“To the girls, yes. Not to Limpy. Just to Helen and 
Adele. They’re as good as married anyhow. Not Limpy.” 

“You know. Senator,” Cecil confessed shyly, “I could 
get married myself if — ^she was old enough. With my po- 
litical experience in this campaign I’m sure to land a good 
job somewhere. And I’ve got money enough to take care 
of a wi — a woman. I could do a lot better for a girl than 
Len Hardesty.” 

The bald effrontery of this staggered the Senator. Why, 
he and Olympia were counting on Limpy for at least ten 
years to come ! When he rallied slightly he said gravely, 

“Cecil, I’m in earnest about this. You’ve got to leave 
Limpy alone or — I will simply have to ask you to resign 
from our service.” 

That disconcerted Cecil. He thought it over, carefully. 
“Of course, if you fired me,” he admitted, “it would hurt 
me in getting another job. But it wouldn’t keep me away 
from Limpy. This is an election year. Anybody can follow 
a senatorial trailer, you know.” 

The Senator knew that, all too well. “I don’t want to 
dismiss you, Cece,” he said kindly. “You’ve done a good 
job and we like you. But Limpy is too young to know her 
own mind and we’re not going to have her bothered.” 

200 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


“I didn’t even think of proposing to her, Senator; not 
yet. I know she’s very young, though mature for her 
years.” 

“What do you mean, mature for her years ?” demanded 
the Senator, with some heat. “Why, she doesn’t even 
know what a logarithm is.” 

“Who does?” asked Cecil gently. This was an embar- 
rassing question. 

“Anyhow, Cece, that is where we stand. You can take 
it or leave it.” 

“I’m going to take it, of course. Until the campaign’s 
over. But I’ve been very careful. Senator. What have I 
done that I shouldn’t do ?” 

“Well, you’ve upset Mrs. Slopshire. You can stop that. 
You must quit sitting around looking at Limpy.” 

“But Senator, you can’t help looking at Limpy if she’s 
in the room. It’s a physical impossibility.” 

“Len Hardesty didn’t look at her, did he ?” 

“Let me catch him looking at her 1” said Cecil passion- 
ately. 

“You’ve got to stop looking at her,” said the Senator 
firmly. 

“But Senator, you must realize — there’s no place else to 
look when Limpy ’s there,” remonstrated Cecil desperately. 

“I’m sorry, Cece, but you’ve got to stop it. Pay atten- 
tion to your work. And when you are discussing the cam- 
paign with us, you needn’t address your remarks to Limpy. 
She’s not running for office and I am.” 

“I’ll try. Senator,” he said unhappily. “I don’t want to 
upset Mrs. Slopshire and I do want the campaign to go 

201 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


through all right. But Senator, you must see how impos- 
sible it is to look at anybody else when Limpy’s in the 
room.” 

‘T’ll keep her out of the room as much as I can,” prom- 
ised the Senator, kindly. “You keep your eyes glued to 
Mrs. Slopshire. Discretion is the best policy — ^at your age. 
When you get to be my age, a glance or two at Limpy 
won’t hurt you. It’ll even set you up a little. But for the 
time being, you stick to Mrs. Slopshire.” 


202 


Chapter XI 


Cech. tried hard. He dogged Mrs. Slopshire’s steps so 
persistently, gazed into her eyes so steadfastly and with 
such melancholy wistfulness, that it got on her nerves. 

‘‘Well, what are you looking at?” she demanded tartly 
one day. 

“Nothing,” he said honestly. 

When Aunt Olympia was not around to be upset by it, 
the girls still teased Limpy. 

“You aren’t as good as you thought you were, Limpy,” 
Helen said. “You see Aunt Olympia has cut you out.” 

“Take it from me, Limpy,” said Adele. “You’ve got to 
fight for your man these days. Fight to get him and fight 
to keep him ; especially with vampires like Aunt Olympia 
around.” 

“There’s something rotten in Shires,” said Limpy, mus- 
ingly. “I just can’t believe my charms have palled on him 
so soon. ... I wouldn’t have believed this of Aunt Olympia. 
I’m going to take lessons.” She dragged down her left eye- 
lid, dabbed at her under-chin, breathed gustily a time or 
two. “Does it make me more ravishing?” she demanded. 

But with girls running all over the place, it was inevitable 
that Cecil should get a few minor breaks. On one day by 
rare good chance, or possibly by design, he found Limpy 
alone in the sitting room. He glanced swiftly about the 
room. Yes, alone ! 


203 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


‘‘Don't move, Limpy!” he Avhispered hoarsely. “Stay 
where you are." 

“Is there a tiger ready to spring?" she asked. 

“No, it's a mirror. I get a lovely view of you." 

Limpy laughed. “Dear me. I'm glad I mirror well. But 
what's wrong with me in person ?" 

“Nothing!" he said fervently. “Nothing at all. You 
see, I'm not to look at you any more till after the election." 

Limpy 's glow of delight would have put her rosy aunt 
to shame. “No, really, Cece 1 How lovely 1" she cooed. She 
held out her hand. “Was an3rthing said about touching 
me?" 

He grabbed the small hand and kissed it again and again, 
until Limpy became restive and tried to withdraw it. 

“Nothing was said," he admitted reluctantly. “But I 
feel pretty sure it was included." 

“Aren't campaigns fun, Cece? . . . Run, Cece! I hear 
footsteps." 

Even with Aunt Olympia present and watchful, Cecil 
managed to make a few opportunities. He appeared at the 
trailer one day with an old-fashioned tripod and a kodak 
curtain. He said the papers complained that the last pic- 
tures of the girls hadn't been clearly focused ; they wanted 
new pictures, better pictures. So he rigged up the tripod, 
posed the girls to his satisfaction, and then spent ten min- 
utes under the curtain, working, as he said, on the focus. 
There was nothing Aunt Olympia could do about that, 
though she realized that behind that hot felt cloth he was 
feasting his hungry eyes on Limpy. Limpy knew it, too, 
and blushed prettily. 

“Now just look at all these late pictures," Olympia com- 

204 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


plained to the Senator. ‘Uimpy, Limpy, Limpy ! Always 
in the foreground, always in the best focus. Adele's got 
the looks that should be featured. No 1 Adele and Helen 
are reduced to background for Limpy’s pictures.’’ 

“But she’s so little,” remonstrated the Senator. “If she 
isn’t in front, she doesn’t show at all.” 

“Don’t worry. She’s always in front and always shows. 
Well, I know one thing. As soon as this campaign is over, 
you and the Senate can go to the Devil. I’m going to take 
Limpy to Africa.” 

“Figuring I suppose that you can win me the colored 
vote when I run for president,” he said. 

Aunt Olympia, who did not care for the Senator’s 
humor, ignored it as usual. 

“I only wish they still had that woman’s country with 
all the men in chains ! The Amazons, wasn’t it ? Well, it 
was a great mistake to let it go out of circulation. I’d take 
Limpy there and live happily forever after.” 

“Limpy isn’t the build for an Amazon,” he objected. 

“Well, I am. I’m Amazonian enough for both of us. . . . 
Thank God, it’s nearly over. As soon as you’re elected — 
though with this viper staring me out of countenance I 
daresay you’ll go down to defeat; but if you’re elected I 
want you to use your influence with the War Department 
and send him to the front-line trenches.” 

“But there isn’t any war,” he said. 

“Well, start one. And I used to think it was wicked of 
David to send that guy Uriah into the thick of the fray to 
get rid of him !” 

“But his motive was different; quite the opposite, in 
fact.” 


205 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


‘Well, it’s a good idea. I’m converted to it. Anybody 
you want to get rid of, send him to war. And if there isn’t 
a war, start one. Anyhow, he’s converted me from paci- 
ficism. Bigger and better wars, is my slogan from this 
on.” 

“Don’t mention it till after- the election,” he said good- 
naturedly, hoping to humor her out of her ill temper. 

During the first week of October, the trailer entourage 
established Baystown as headquarters and were giving 
parking facilities in the Community Center. From this 
base, the campaigners went off daily on flying junkets by 
automobile with a noisy escort of police. It had been a 
hard week, for this was the beginning of the Senator’s 
state-wide sweep for votes. 

On Saturday, Aunt Olympia exhibited a degree of ner- 
vous energy for which not even the hard week could be 
held entirely accountable. She spent the morning relaxing 
in bed and studying manuscript. She spent the afternoon 
having a facial, a wave, a mud pack and a hot bath. The 
Senator had gone off with Dave and Cecil to attend a picnic 
of the Young Democrats at Hardcastle, planning to return 
to Baystown in time to address the big rally in the Audi- 
torium at eight o’clock. 

He had wanted to take the girls along, but Aunt Olympia 
had put her foot down on that. “No, I want them to get 
rested up so they’ll be pretty and fresh tonight,” she said. 
“And if Limpy were off with you and Cece I wouldn’t be 
able to concentrate. You go, and keep your eye on Cece. If 
he gets back here ahead of you. I’ll have him arrested.” 

Aunt Olympia made the girls take a brisk walk. She had 
tea and sandwiches ready for their refreshment on their 
return. 

206 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


‘T want you to wear your prettiest frocks tonight and 
look your sweetest.” 

“Our wind-up costumes?” asked Limpy eagerly, for 
those fetching gowns had been kept under lock and key all 
summer. 

“No ; not those. The next-to-prettiest.” 

“Is this a special meeting, Auntie?” asked Adele. 

“Well, it’s apt to be,” admitted Aunt Olympia nervously. 
“And it’s my policy to be prepared for anything. You see — 
very possibly — this may be the night the Senator will be 
late and they’ll call on me for my extemporaneous speech. 
That’s why I ordered these little corsages for all of us. 
Rosebuds. I prefer orchids but they look too expensive for 
a campaigner.” 

“But why do we have to wear corsages and look nicer 
than usual? They won’t call on us, will they?” 

“Oh, no, dears, of course not. But you will have to sit 
on the platform and look nice and take a bow or two.” 

“But we always do that !” 

“Yes, but when I make my extemporaneous speech we 
always have extra photographers on hand. . . . ‘Ladies and 
gentlemen,’ ” she murmured, working on her chin and 
smiling urbanely. 

At six o’clock, groups began streaming into the park. 
Microphones had been set up all over the grounds, so that 
those unable to crowd into the auditorium might hear. At 
seven, floodlights were turned on, and the band struck up. 

“We’d better dress now,” said Aunt Olympia. 

“It’s very crowded for four to dress in here,” objected 
Adele. “Can’t we take our bags and dash over to the 
hotel?” 

“No. It’s more effective for them to summon us from 

207 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


the trailer; in case they call on us, of course. You’d better 
take the full-length mirror, Adele. It doesn’t make so much 
difference about the rest of us.” 

Aunt Olympia’s words were prophetic. At eight o’clock, 
after preliminary speeches and introductions, Jim Allen, 
the state chairman, shouted into the microphone : 

‘‘Attention, attention, attention ! Ladies and gentlemen ! 
We have just received word that our good friend, Senator 
Slopshire, has been unavoidably detained at Hardcastle. He 
will not waste a moment getting here, but in the meantime, 
out here in the trailer just finishing their quiet supper, we 
have that grand old trouper, Olympia Slopshire, the Sena- 
tor’s wife, and her young nieces. Shall I try to induce 
Olympia to make a few remarks until the Senator gets 
here?” 

A roar of applause went up. 

“Jim’s probably mentioned trying to induce me,” said 
Olympia, blandly, dusting her face with powder and tuck- 
ing back a nervous curl. 

Jim Allen banged on the trailer door. Olympia opened it. 

“Mrs. Slopshire, the Senator is unavoidably detained a 
few minutes. Won’t you come over and just say howdy 
to the folks? Just pass away the time till the Senator gets 
here ?” 

“Now, Jim, you know I don’t know a thing about poli- 
tics! I leave all that to the Senator!” protested Aunt 
Olympia. 

“Well, they want to see you anyhow. Just hear them 
cheering over there ! You don’t have to make a speech — 
just give them a smile ! Come on, Mrs. Slopshire ! Come 
on, girls.” 

208 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


“Don’t forget any of those extemporaneous wise-cracks 
you’ve been thinking up all summer,” whispered Limpy. 

“If I do, you can prompt me,” said Aunt Olympia, in 
high good humor. 

“And don’t swear,” added Adele, “or they’ll turn the 
mikes off.” 

The auditorium was packed to the doors; packed a 
hundred feet beyond the doors, in fact. There was a rear 
entrance giving easy access to the platform, but Jim Allen 
forced a way through the crowd to lead his smiling con- 
tingent right through the voting public. 

“There she is!” “There they are!” “Good evening, 
Mrs. Slopshire !” “Rah, rah, rah, the ladies !” “The ladies, 
God bless them.” 

Half a dozen hands reached down from the platform to 
assist them to mount, Olympia, Helen, Adele and Limpy. 
The applause continued for ten minutes, while the ladies, 
looking very pretty, stood bowing, smiling, waving their 
hands. Limpy, remembering the brats, threw kisses. 

Then Jim Allen roared for silence. “Ladies — ladies — 
and gentlemen ! — This lady needs no introduction to you ! 
She’s your ladyl This is our old friend, Olympia Slop- 
shire! She won’t make a speech, she just wants to say 
howdy! — Your lady, ladies and gentleman, Olympia Slop- 
shire !” 

Olympia advanced, smiling, to the rostrum and put her 
handbag and gloves on it. Then she turned and shook a 
playful finger at Jim. 

“Now, Jim Allen, you only asked me to come and take 
a bow! You didn’t say a word to me about making a 
speech,” she protested gaily. “I can’t make a speech ; I don’t 

209 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


even know how to begin. Especially on politics. I always 
say one politician in a family is enough. Sometimes I 
think it is more than enough ! Now if you wanted a speech 
on keeping the house, on running the family budget, on 
cheap recipes for canning fruit and making preserves, I 
could talk till election. 

“Why, I am not even enough of a politician to call you 
constituents !” she cried, keeping well in range of the mi- 
crophone. “You’re not constituents to me! You’re just 
friends, old friends and neighbors. That’s all I know about 
politics. 

“Now because you are only my friends and neighbors, I 
want you to meet these three dear little children of mine 
who have made me so happy and kept my heart and hands 
so full this year. . . . Girls, come on, stand up 1 I want them 
to see what you look like.” 

The girls tripped up and stood, smiling, grouped about 
her. 

“Now those of you who have families,” she went on, 
“understand that between providing nourishing meals, 
doing the mending and darning, superintending the laun- 
dry, safeguarding the health of my husband and these 
three children, I wouldn’t have time to meddle in politics if 
I wanted to. But the girls mean more to me than politics. 
That’s why I want you to be their friend and neighbor, as 
you are mine. . . . This is Helen 1 . . . This is Adele 1 . . . 
And this is my little Limpy! . . . Stand up on a chair, 
Limpy ! So they can see you 1” Limpy was boosted, blush- 
ing, upon a chair, but she rose to it gallantly and threw 
more kisses. “You can sit down now, girls. 

“But I would not give you the wrong impression about 

210 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


my attitude/^ continued Aunt Olympia with sudden ear- 
nestness. ^T am interested — vitally interested — just as you 
are — in every detail, every movement, every law, every 
national policy, that affects our state and our country. 
Women are concerned with politics, because all problems 
that touch the home, the family, the school, the church, the 
health, are women’s problems! What is there that con- 
cerns our nation that does not eventually lead straight to 
our homes, your home and mine ? Labor, relief, flood con- 
trol, wages and hours, taxation, even war itself, rearma- 
ment, a naval policy, the affairs of commerce and agricul- 
ture — ^all these are powerful electrical currents by which 
our homes are made safe and sweet, or are destroyed ! 

‘‘And since by our American system of government — 
the most glorious system ever devised I May it never grow 
less ! — since by our system, all these delicate problems of 
government, of justice, of fair play, and of protection, 
must be worked out through politics, then, yes, I am inter- 
ested in politics. We’re all interested in politics! What 
woman, worthy the name of wife, of mother, could remain 
uninterested and indifferent to the system by which food, 
clothing and shelter are provided for her children, which 
gives them education, which safeguards them from the 
ravages of war, which insures the security of their future, 
and endows them forever with the sacred right of freedom ? 

“So yes, to that extent, I am interested in politics. Well, 
now, in this campaign, you may be surprised to know,” she 
said with a light laugh, “that these girls and I are for Sena- 
tor Slopshire! . . . Aren’t we, girls? Aren’t we for the 
Senator !” The girls applauded prettily. “And why are we 
for the Senator ? Because we know him ; we know he can 

211 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 

be trusted ; we know he understands our needs, our prob- 
lems, and will work day and night, and give his lifeblood if 
necessary, for our well-being and the well-being of our 

friends and neighbors Now if I thought someone else — 

say some dentist or some — ^grocery clerk — or even, say, 
Brother Wilkie ! — ” She was silenced by a roar of boos — 
‘‘Yes, say even Brother Wilkie! If I thought Brother 
Wilkie had better understanding in the ways of statesman- 
ship, or more experience in the affairs of government, and 
could do more for us — for you and me, my friends, and 
for our children — ^why, then Td come right out and vote 
for Brother Wilkie. I know Brother Wilkie makes a good 
preacher and I’d be glad to have him back in our pulpit as 
my pastor. But I also know that Senator Slopshire is a 
great statesman and a cracking good senator and here’s one 
vote he can count on I” 

Olympia sat down in a storm of applause and was obliged 
to rise and take a dozen or more bows. The girls had to 
rise and bow, too, and the committee had thoughtfully, 
almost prophetically, provided great bouquets of flowers 
for every one of them, which were presented with more 
applause. And by extraordinarily perfect timing, while the 
band was playing thunderously, while Olympia and the girls 
were waving their flowers to show their surprise and grati- 
tude, the Senator arrived in person and came striding man- 
fully down the aisle followed by his staff of assistants. 
Lights flashed, cameras clicked, and Limpy was boosted 
up to the chair again. Everybody stood up, and waved 
the American and the state flags with which they had been 
thoughtfully provided and the Senator was assisted to 
mount the rostrum. He shook hands cordially with every- 

212 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


body seated on the platform, nodded to Olympia, and gave 
each of the girls a paternal pat. 

“Put one of your rosebuds in Uncle Lancy’s buttonhole, 
Limpy darling,” cooed Aunt 01)mipia. 

Limpy, flushed but laughing, hastily complied, and 
when she had it in place, the Senator rewarded her with a 
great fatherly hug and a resounding kiss. And the ap- 
plause shook the auditorium. 


213 


Chapter XII 


By agreement between the two state chairmen, the cam- 
paign proper was to close on Saturday night, the fifth of 
November. For that night, the wind-up, huge rallies had 
been arranged for each of the rival candidates, some seventy 
miles apart but both well toward the strategic center of the 
state. Sunday had been designated a day of rest, but at the 
last moment Brother Wilkie, yielding to what he called 
“insistent importunity,” consented to speak again in the 
pulpit of the Methodist Church in Maysville, the largest 
church in the state. On Monday evening, each candidate 
had been allotted thirty minutes on the radio in a state- 
wide hook-up, but the battle royal — except for what Aunt 
Olympia called “the treachery of the pulpit” — ^was to end 
on Saturday night. The wind-up 1 

The girls, tired as they were, looked forward to that 
night with some eagerness, since it would turn the key to 
the matchless wind-up costumes, for which they had 
yearned all summer. It was well the campaign was nearly 
over. Aunt Olympia, hardy old trouper though she was, 
was near the breaking point and even in her sleep sustained 
a nervous flush from the roots of her hair down out of 
sight beneath her baby-blue down comfort. The girls were 
wan and weary-eyed. Cecil Dodd fell asleep several times, 
gazing straight into Aunt Olympia’s blue but bloodshot 
eyes. Even Uncle Fancy’s mild voice had taken on a slight 
edge, carefully filed down for const! tuential consumption. 
214 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


On Monday, the trailer cavalcade took up its last head- 
quarters in the Recreation Park at Radway. This was a 
happy stroke, as the park was well provided with pleasant 
facilities ; riding horses for rent, swimming pool and bath- 
house, tennis courts, good restaurants, a small hotel, a 
tavern. 

Here the trailer was detached from the car and camp es- 
tablished for the biggest — and last — ^week of the cam- 
paign. No real cooking was undertaken; just enough to 
provide homey glimpses for the crowds which milled about. 
Their meals, except for a light breakfast, were taken in 
hotels or restaurants, though the larder was well stocked 
with emergency supplies sent daily from Shires by Hilda — 
fried chicken, sandwiches, cake and pie. Radway was 
twenty miles from Trent fare, where the Senator’s wind-up 
rally was to be held. And after the rally, the last tired trek 
would return them to Shires to await the end. The Gov- 
ernor’s final rally was slated for Lancaster, about forty 
miles from Radway in the opposite direction. 

That was a terrible week. They campaigned from break- 
fast till midnight, constantly in the public eye ; obliged to 
shake thousands of hands and to be pleasant until the smiles 
seemed frozen to their tired features. 

“Honestly, Aunt Olympia,” said Limpy wearily, “I’m 
developing a voter-phobia. Even in the middle of the night 
I feel eyes staring right through my best pajamas. Even 
when I cover up my head, I feel them.” 

“It’s nearly over, thank God,” said Aunt Olympia 
piously. 

On the day of the wind-up, Saturday morning, they sat 
jadedly at breakfast in the little dinette of the trailer. 

215 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


Limpy could not force herself to eat ; she could not drink 
her coffee ; could only sit, listless and dull, toying with her 
fork. 

Aunt Olympia persisted in urging her. 

“But I can’t. Auntie, I tell you, I can’t!” said Limpy 
impatiently. “The very thought of food chokes me right 
up.” 

Aunt Olympia gave her a straight hard look. There were 
dark circles under Limpy’s lusterless eyes, there was no 
trace of her impish sparkle. 

“Don’t you feel well, Limpy?” quavered Aunt Olympia, 
herself distraught and keyed-up. 

“Yes, I feel all right. I’m just not hungry. It makes me 
sick to see the rest of you eat.” 

“Del, call a doctor !” said Aunt Olympia, with tears of 
nervous weariness welling to her eyes. 

“I don’t want a doctor. I just need — to be let alone a 
minute,” protested the badgered girl. 

Aunt Olympia rose to it. 

“Del, call the police I” she ordered briskly. 

“Good heavens. Auntie, does one go to jail in this state 
if he can’t eat?” ejaculated Limpy. 

The Senator motioned from the window and a police- 
man came to the door. 

“People have got to leave these girls alone,” said Aunt 
Olympia. “You keep folks away from this trailer. Put 
guards around it. If we lose votes, we just lose them. Look 
at these children! Just look at them! Now you make it 
your business to keep people off !” 

“No, don’t do that, darling,” said Helen. “This is the 
last day. We can stand it another day. We’re just not 

216 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


used to so much excitement and noise. We’ll put Limpy 
to bed.” 

“We mustn’t make anybody mad enough to vote for 
Brother Wilkie,” Adele reminded her. 

“Alenqon Delaporte Slopshire,” said Olympia reproach- 
fully, “do you mean to sit there and tell me you would kill 
these children for the sake of a few paltry votes ?” ‘ 

The Senator, basely accused, reached for his glasses. 

“Not at all, my dear ! I never said any such thing. I’m 
sorry I ran. Let him have the election. Let him go to the 
Senate. At least, it’ll keep him from leading in prayer next 
year and I don’t know that I could sit through any more of 
his prayers.” 

Aunt Olympia, forgetting her own weariness, took 
forceful charge. She saw guards set about the trailer to 
insure privacy. She refused to let the girls accompany the 
Senator to Hillside, where he was to make an address in 
the afternoon ; she refused to go herself, though it was un- 
precedented for him to make a campaign speech without a 
rosy Olympia smiling in the background. She ordered the 
Senator, Dave, Cece and the two secretaries to gather up 
all their papers and books and everything else they were 
likely to need and take them over to the sound truck. Then 
she ordered the girls to bed. She pulled down the blinds of 
the trailer windows ; she saw that they were well supplied 
with magazines, books, candy and nuts ; then she went out, 
closed the door and locked it. 

She put the key in her pocket, established herself in a 
large camp chair where she could keep an eye on things, 
and went to sleep. 

The girls, needing rest, accepted it gratefully. They 

217 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


talked for a while, halfheartedly. Then they stretched 
out on their narrow beds to read and finally dozed off. 

At noon the Senator, with Dave and Cecil and the secre- 
taries, set off for Hillside, taking the big car, the sound 
truck and the small Fords, and promising to be back in 
good time for dinner to get an early start for Trent fare. 
The two motorcycle officers who constituted their escort 
roared after them. 

Aunt Olympia saw them off, drowsily, and immediately 
went to sleep again. At three o^clock, the girls, well rested, 
banged on the door for release. 

‘‘You look better anyhow, if not your best,” she greeted 
them crisply. “Come on over to the restaurant ; Fve got a 
good hot dinner ordered for you.” 

A couple of dozen cars were standing about the grounds 
and perhaps half a hundred people hung interestedly about. 

“Don't look at them,” ordered Aunt Olympia. “They’re 
probably tourists from some other state anyhow. Don’t 
even smile.” 

She had arranged to have their meal served in a small 
private dining room, secluded from boring eyes. 

“Don’t mention politics !” she commanded grimly. 

“But Auntie, what else in the world is there to talk 
about?” demanded Limpy. 

“Well, there’s that worm. Brother Wilkie,” said Aunt 
Olympia. “There’s nothing political about him, except his 
ambition. And ... let me see, there must be something 
else! . . . there’s — ^groceries!” she finished triumphantly. 

Helen flushed faintly. 

“But there’s so little to say about groceries,” said Adele 
helpfully. 

218 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


‘There's plenty to say about them," said Aunt Olympia. 
“There's the high price of them, and the poor quality, 
and the rotten service of the delivery boys — " 

“There's ‘shoes and ships and sealing wax 

And cabbages and kings,' " quoted Limpy. 

“Certainly!" agreed Aunt Olympia. 

They ate slowly, with lazy relish, and wandered out to 
the park again. 

“We'll go and sit under the trees and talk some more 
about groceries," said Aunt Olympia purposefully. “For 
one hour ! Then you go swimming 1" 

“Swimming?" 

“In the bathhouse. I've arranged with the proprietor-- 
for a small consideration — it’ll be a present from your 
Uncle Lancy when I tell him about it — ^to keep everybody 
else out of the pool and let you have time to soak the cam- 
paign out of your joints. But you can't go for an hour 
after a meal." 

Aunt Olympia had risen to the emergency. 

“At five o'clock you go to the pool and swim and float and 
relax and forget politics. We don't have to leave here till 
seven-thirty. I'll lay out your wind-up costumes and have 
everything ready. You'll be new children tonight. For 
Uncle Fancy's sake, you've got to look your best 1" 

The girls cheerfully acquiesced. Aunt Olympia was the 
sort of woman who inspires acquiescence. At five o'clock 
they got into their smart bathing ensembles, draped their 
becoming bath capes around their shoulders, and tripped 
gaily into the bathhouse. Aunt Olympia went with them 
and saw them take their first plunges. 

“Now take a good long time to it," she admonished them. 

219 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


‘T want you to limber up your nervous systems, and that 
takes time. Til call you when I want you. I’m going to 
snatch a nap.” 

But Aunt Olympia had no such blessed opportunity that 
afternoon. Before she was more than stretched out on 
her cot, the roar of sirens announced the return of the 
Senator. He explained that a large crowd had gathered at 
Mills ville, about halfway to Trent fare, an impromptu rally 
had been arranged and he had to dash right over and make 
them a speech. 

“We’ll have to hurry,” he said. 

“You can hurry all you’ve a mind to,” said Olympia 
coldly. “The children have just gone for their bath and 
Lord knows they need a bath after all the mud that’s 
been slung at us. They can’t go.” 

“Perhaps I’d better just go on in the car then, and you 
can bring the girls and meet me at Trent fare. Or pick me 
up at Millsville.” 

“They particularly want to see Mrs. Slopshire,” ob- 
jected Dave. “They took up a collection and bought her a 
present. She’s got to go along and we’ve got to get started.” 

Aunt Olympia was equal to the emergency. “Now, I tell 
you what,” she said, thinking very fast. “Those girls are 
all tired out and they’re having a lovely time over there 
alone. I’ll go with you to Millsville and get my present. 
We’ll take the trailer and I can dress on the way over. 
We’ll take the cars, too, and leave Ben Baldy here to drive 
the sound truck over when the girls get ready. We’ll put 
their wind-up clothes — I’ve got them laid out — in the truck 
for them and they can finish their bath and dress leisurely 
and be as fresh as daisies when they arrive. You pull the 

220 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


truck up near the bathhouse and hitch onto the trailer. I’ll 
go to the bathhouse and tell the girls.” 

Aunt Olympia went to the bathhouse on a weary trot. 
She was worn to what she herself tersely described as a 
hank of hair, but she did not falter. Thank God, it was the 
last day ! She motioned the girls to come to the edge of the 
pool. 

‘‘Girls,” she said, “the Senator’s come and we’ve got to 
go to another meeting or two before Trent fare.” 

“We’ll come right out,” said Helen. 

“You’ll do nothing of the sort. You don’t have to go to 
this meeting. It’s impromptu.” The girls grinned appre- 
ciatively at that ; they had seen impromptu politics before. 

“Yes, really impromptu, as far as I know,” Aunt 
Olympia added thoughtfully. “Though they allowed them- 
selves time to wire the park for loud speaking and buy me 
a present. . . . Anyhow, you don’t have to go. You finish 
your swim and take all the time you want. We’re leaving 
Ben Baldy to bring you over in the sound truck. You’d 
better lie down a while after your swim. . . . I’ll put extra 
cushions in the truck. Dress your very prettiest. I’ll have 
your wind-up clothes in the truck ready for you, and he’ll 
get you there just in time for the close, so you’ll be nice 
and fresh for it.” 

“That’s fine. Auntie !” 

“What a nice old Auntie !” 

“The water’s grand. Aunt Olympia. Why don’t you 
chuck the meeting and have a plunge ?” 

“I can’t. I’ve got to go and receive a present. Nothing 
makes you so mad as to have a present and nobody to 
present it to. I’ll put a hamper of chicken and sandwiches 

221 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


in the truck, too, as you won’t be hungry. You can eat on 
the way over. I don’t think your digestions will stand 
another hot-dog barbecue.” 

“Can we make speeches if we see anybody loitering 
around ?” 

“Sure. You must know what to say by this time !” 

“Don’t forget our powder and make-up !” said Adele. 

“Don’t forget the wind-up hats,” said Limpy. 

“I won’t forget an3^hing. And don’t hurry, girls. I do 
want you to get freshened up. I want you to be as sweet as 
cherry blossoms. It’s the wind-up.” 

“And Tuesday the pay-off !” said Limpy, blissfully tread- 
ing water. “Uncle Lancy really owed us this bath.” 


222 


Chapter XIII 


The campaign had been spoiled for Len Hardesty, too, 
working for the Opposition. That was on account of 
Adele. Accepting her note of temporary dismissal in the 
the spirit of candid honesty in which it had been written, 
he no longer felt free to dash in at Shires or on the trailer 
troupe. The Senator would have received him as before, 
he knew that; so would Olympia. Probably even Helen, 
painfully schooling herself to accept the bitter exigencies 
of a political future, would have greeted him with quiet 
dignity. But not Adele ; nor Limpy, who had made it clear 
to everyone that she would never speak to him again until 
Adele forgave him. And Adele wouldn’t — ^not till after 
the election. 

He wrote to Adele, apologetically and at rare intervals at 
first, half- fearing she would return the missives unopened. 
They did not come back. He could not be sure that she 
read them, though, knowing Adele, he felt reasonably sure 
that she did. But she made no answer. He wrote more 
frequently then and more ardently; these letters, too, were 
spared the ignominy of rejection. During October he wrote 
every day, usually by special delivery; and following the 
Senator’s itinerary closely, as he was obliged to, he did 
not find it difficult to make sure that a reminder reached 
her every day. And every letter declared in conclusion, ‘T 
feel the same, darling, today, and shall feel the same all the 
rest of my life.” 


223 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


The Gallup Polls indicated that while the campaign was 
fairly close, the closing weeks showed a definite trend in 
the Senator’s favor. This, Brother Wilkie rather ungrate- 
fully attributed to Len’s coup in the spy business, which 
had not only missed fire but had resonantly redounded to 
his disadvantage. There was no real attack to be made on 
the Senator, for, as Len said bitterly, he had played his 
cards too close to the chest for that. He could not be too 
seriously besmirched for loyalty to the liberal tendencies of 
the Administration, for Brother Wilkie himself had, 
against Len’s counsel, come out for the Townsend Old- 
Age pension. 

They could only fall back on the Senator’s ‘‘innocuous 
mildness,” his “hopeless inefficiency.” As for his mildness, 
Len knew — ^and the voters knew — ^that once the Senator got 
his glasses wiped and his feet on the ground, he would take 
no back-talk from any one but Olympia. 

Len’s personal future did not look any too bright, ex- 
cept for the one ray of divine effulgence that after the elec- 
tion he would see Adele. But to have Adele — even to ask 
for Adele — ^he must have a job, money. The Governor’s 
failure would be a smudgy blot on Len’s record. Naturally, 
he could expect no help from the Senator. If only he could 
insure that the race would be close, a struggle to the last 
vote, it would minimize the defeat. Another coup was 
called for. 

“The Senator is hopelessly inefficient.” But there was 
nothing one could put hand on to support that accusation. 
He had answered — ^with a good deal of help, of course — 
every argument advanced against him. His personal af- 
fairs were above reproach. He had inherited some money, 
224 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


some property; he had made more money, had added to 
and improved his holdings. Shires was well-kept-up, well- 
administered ; it even made money, a thing almost unheard- 
of among gentry farm folk. The Senator was known to be 
both liberal with labor and just to capital. All this made 
Len's job a hard one. 

‘‘The Senator is inefficient.’^ But to prove it? 

In desperation, on Tuesday, the first of November, Len 
called to confidential conference Spike O’Connor, the Gov- 
ernor’s chauffeur. 

“Now see here, Spike,” he began, “you’ve had a very 
easy summer of it — just touring the state, looking at the 
scenery, escorting the seven bra — er, cherubs — ^and now 
you’ve got to do the Governor one good he-man turn be- 
fore the wind-up.” 

“Wha’da ya mean, seven cherubs? I ain’t seen nQ 
cherubs an’ I been to church regular every Sunday morm 
ing for four months which wasn’t included in the agree- 
ment that I got to go to church. Not that I call them 
Methodists no rightful church myself,” he added hastily. 
“But, anyhow, I been.” 

“I’ll get Frank to take over the cherubs from this on,” 
promised Len. “You’re entitled to a rest. But there’s one 
thing you’ve got to do. You’ve got to help us prove that 
Senator Slopshire is hopelessly inefficient.” 

“Any senator that’s smart enough to pick himself out 
three good-looking skirts in place o’ them brats of ours 
ain’t my idea of no inefficiency,” said Spike, firmly. 

Len let that go; it accorded too closely with his own 
ideas. “A man who cannot safeguard his home, his prop- 
erty, his campaign equipment, from — external ravage — is 

225 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


certainly not to be trusted with the intricate affairs of this 
sovereign state,” he declared. 

“Well, I don’ know but Fd as soon commit a few rav- 
ages as go to church any more — which ain’t rightly no 
church, in my opinion,” said Spike reasonably. 

“Right ! Perfectly right ! Now on Saturday night he’s 
going hobnobbing and grandstanding all over the state 
with that elegant sound truck of his : all plebeian dirt out- 
side and luxury within! ... So what? So right from 
under his nose, we’re going to swipe that sound truck and 
show him up for the hopeless inefficient that he is.” 

“Did you say we, or me?” asked Spike uneasily. 

“Both. It’s my idea but you’ll do the practical demon- 
stration,” said Len cheerfully. “They don’t guard any- 
thing. They’re a bunch of nincompoops. They leave their 
doors wide open — ^to everybody but me, that is,” he added 
bitterly. “They leave the keys in the locks, the switches 
turned on — everything wide open. Now, you’ll swipe the 
sound truck and bring it over to Lancaster for the big rally. 
We’ll have the Governor bring out how careless and in- 
different and inefficient the Senator is, and then we’ll turn 
on the floodlights and there’ll be you and the Senator’s 
sound truck ! A man that isn’t smart enough to look after 
his own sound truck on the wind-up night is certainly not 
one to be trusted with the future of this sovereign state.” 

“What’s in it for me ?” asked Spike, practically. 

“Surcease from the brats is reward enough,” said Len. 
“However, here are a hundred dollars for your expenses. 
You get that sound truck and keep it hidden until election 
night and bring it to our rally, and there’s a two-hundred- 
dollar bonus in it for you — spot cash. And a job, beside, if 
the Governor wins.” 

226 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


‘T could hide it in that dump back of my place,” said 
Spike thoughtfully. ‘T got a half-interest in that dump.” 

‘‘Right. Just get it. And hide it. And have it at the rally 
at Lancaster. That's all. Two hundred cash — a, job — ^and 
you'll be a hero, Spike.” 

“Yeh, if I ain't in stripes. I ain’t seen many heroes in 
stripes.” 

“You won’t be in stripes. The Senator'll have to keep it 
out of the courts to save his face. You'd better get a motor- 
cycle — ^no, a motorcycle makes too much noise and at- 
tracts too much attention. You'd better drum up a little 
old run-down weather-beaten Ford and just go trailing 
them around. Take your time. Don't rush it. We won't 
need it till Saturday night. They're installed now at Rad- 
way, and will be there all week. You go over, join the 
troupe, watch your chance and get us that truck for Sat- 
urday night.” 

“Okay, boss,” said Spike. 

“Will you get the truck?” 

“Sure. I've as good as got it. With the understand- 
ing,” he added hastily, “that I ain't called on to attend no 
heathen churches next morning.” 

“Okay!” 

From Len Hardesty's recital of the ease of its accom- 
plishment, Spike O'Connor was not prepared for the hard 
luck he encountered in carrying out his enterprise. When 
his ramshackle old roadster pulled into the grounds at 
Radway, it attracted no attention at all. The Senator's 
processional was often followed by half a dozen or more 
cars that nobody knew anything about. Spike had large 
VOTE FOR SLOPSHIRE posters prominently displayed 
on the car and wore a SLOPSHIRE button, a cheap but- 

227 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


ton, not platinum and set with brilliants like Limpy’s, but 
much larger. All VOTE FOR SLOPSHIRES were wel- 
come to join the cavalcade. 

But the camp was a bristling bustle of activity from 
morning till night. There were chauffeurs, reporters, 
cameramen, policemen ; there were county chairmen, visit- 
ing delegates, reception committees, local delegations. On 
Wednesday, Thursday and Friday the sound truck was in 
constant use ; at night, Ben Baldy slept on the cushions on 
the floor of it. 

By Saturday, Spike was nearly desperate. And Satur- 
day was worse. Aunt Olympia set a guard of officers 
around the trailer early in the morning and the sound truck 
was within ten feet of it. Aunt Olympia, evidently not 
trusting the police, planted herself under a tree, where os- 
tensibly she’ was asleep but definitely on guard. No chance ! 

About noon, the Senator drove off in the truck with 
Ben Baldy, followed by the extra cars and what seemed to 
be the entire staff, including the police escort. Not even a 
man of Spike’s resourcefulness could steal a sound truck 
with a United States Senator on the front seat speaking 
through the microphone. Spike could only wait. Naturally 
of a philosophical frame of mind, however, his dejection 
was slightly modified by the knowledge that he had enjoyed 
four days of blessed relief from the company of the brats, 
and that he had spent only ten dollars of his expense money. 
Still, Spike was proud ; he had said he would get that sound 
truck ; it would be a definite blot on his record to fail in the 
mission. 

At five o’clock the Senator came roaring back with his 
noisy escort, and presently, after a good deal of dashing 

228 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


about and giving orders and shouting instructions, the big 
car with the Senator and Mrs. Slopshire, the small car 
pulling the trailer, three small Fords, filled with miscel- 
laneous assistants, and the police escort, went screaming 
Out of the Recreation Park. Only the sound truck was left, 
pulled up near the deserted bathhouse. But it was not left 
alone. Ben Baldy sat erect and watchful on the driver’s 
seat. Spike dallied for a while with the idea of trying to 
bribe him with the balance of the expense money, but 
abandoned that idea as unworthy of him. He sat on the 
running board of his car and watched Ben Baldy and the 
sound truck. Ben Baldy sat as if glued to the driver’s seat. 

As dusk came on, a slow drizzle of rain began to fall and 
the park grounds were swiftly deserted. Spike, with a last 
hopeless look at Ben’s silent figure, went dejectedly across 
the park and into the tavern for a glass of beer. 

If he had made this move by studied design instead of at 
the prompting of thirst, it would have been the smartest act 
of Spike’s life. 

The moving figure in the drizzling rain of the deserted 
park attracted Ben Baldy ’s attention. His eyes followed 
Spike through the rain, straight to the door of the tavern. 
A stream of bright warm light shot out; the strains of 
swinging dance music — a pleasant change from the Star 
Spangled Banner he had been having all summer. The 
door closed. The light was cut off. The music died. 

Ben Baldy looked at his watch. A quarter to seven. He 
looked at the bathhouse door. No sign of the girls. He 
got down from the driver’s seat and followed Spike 
O’Connor into the tavern. Spike greeted him with his 
broadest Irish smile. They went simultaneously to the bar. 

229 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


‘‘Wet night, brother,’’ said Ben Baldy sociably. 

“How come you ain’t over to the rally?” said Spike. 
“Ain’t you with the Senator?” 

Ben Baldy had some grievance of his own, apart from 
the long wait. “Aw, they switched me onto the truck. They 
went ahead to the rally — with barbecue and beer thrown 
in — and left the girls in swimmin’. I got to take them when 
they come out. In my opinion they spoil them girls. I got 
girls of my own, and I don’t leave my Number One chauf- 
feur and my sound truck to pack them around country 
when they got swum up,” he said resentfully. 

“Where they at now?” asked Spike. 

“Still swimming. Swim all night, like as not. I just got 
to wait. Mis’ Slopshire says them girls’ bath comes before 
the election.” 

“I’m paying, brother,” said Spike generously. “How 
about a double whisky?” 

“The Senator don’t allow no hard drinkin’ on cam- 
paign,” said Ben bitterly. “He says it riles the Prohi- 
bition.” 

“The Senator ain’t around now and ain’t likely to be 
around till after that rally. And if them girls is as countri- 
fied as the papers make out, they won’t know the difference 
between a whisky and a coke. Set ’em up. . . . On me. 
Double whiskys.” 

Spike took one generous draught of his liquor; he felt 
he needed that. Then he said, “Watch mine, will you? I 
want to see if I locked that bus.” 

He sauntered leisurely across the room to the door. But 
once outside, without a look toward his ramshackle Ford, 
he went on a dead run for the sound truck, standing, de- 
230 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


serted and alone, near the bathhouse door. ... Yes, there it 
was ! He leaped into the driver’s seat, turned the switch, 
pressed on the starter and the sound truck plunged forward 
out of the camp grounds into the highway, turning north, 
headed for the Governor’s rally at Lancaster. 

What with the roar of the truck, the song of triumph in 
his ears, and the clinking of two hundred prospective dol- 
lars in his imagination. Spike O’Connor could not possibly 
have heard the three faint screams of surprise that went up 
from the interior as the truck got under way. The girls had 
leisurely finished their bath, as admonished by Aunt 
Olympia, had skipped lightly from the bathhouse into the 
truck and were cheerfully making ready to rub themselves 
down in that small enclosure when it drove off. 

After the first shock, they pulled themselves together. 

^‘We must have stayed too long,” said Helen. ‘‘We’ll 
have to dress as we go. Where’s the bag, Adele ?” 

“I don’t see it an)rwhere. Where’s the switch?” 

“Wait ! Don’t touch it with wet hands. That’s danger- 
ous. Let me do it.” 

Helen pressed the button and the truck was palely flooded 
with light. 

“Here’s food,” said Limpy. “That’s something. It’ll 
take an hour to get there. Let’s eat first.” 

“It’s pretty cold,” said Helen. “We’d better dress first.” 

But seeing Limpy already cheerfully at work on a drum- 
stick, the others followed suit, sitting on cushions on the 
floor of the rocking sound truck. 

“Isn’t this fun ?” said Adele. “I’m glad they didn’t wait 
for us. It’s such a relief to eat without smirking at photog- 
raphers. Sandwich, please, Glutton.” 


231 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


Blissfully unaware that they were en route to the wrong 
meeting, the girls nibbled down to the last bone of chicken, 
the last crumb of sandwich and cooky. Then Limpy, sigh- 
ing contentedly, stretched out full-length on the floor of the 
truck. 

‘‘Auntie said rest,’’ she reminded them. 

“You get right up from there and put your clothes on,” 
said Helen firmly. “If you catch cold, you know who’ll be 
blamed for it.” 

“God,” said Limpy. 

“Helen,” said Helen. “Or Uncle Lancy, or Brother 
Wilkie, or poor old Cece ; anybody but dear precious little 
Limpy. You mosey right into your clothes and don’t 
argue.” 

“And remember the cameras that wait us over there,” 
said Adele, slithering out of her damp bath cape. 

“Over there !” sang Limpy. “Over there! The cameras 
are clicking over there 1” 

“Where’s the bag, Helen?” 

But search which soon became panicky failed to produce 
the suitcase and the wind-up costumes, or the big box with 
the smart black and white fall felts. Not only were there 
no wind-up costumes ; there were no clothes at all, of any 
description, except a pair of pajamas and two clean shirts 
belonging to Ben Baldy, who slept in the truck. 

“She must have forgotten them,” said Helen. “We’ll 
just have to keep as warm as we can till we get there. 
She’ll be on the look-out for us at the other end. Poor 
dear, no wonder she forgot! What a summer she’s 
had!” 

So the girls, more amused than alarmed, rubbed them- 

232 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


selves down with the towels, drew the drenched capes about 
them and snuggled together on cushions on the floor of 
the truck, awaiting their arrival, and Aunt Olympia, and 
clothes. 

‘‘She’ll be sick if we don’t get to wear those costumes,” 
said Limpy. “She set thousands of votes by those cos- 
tumes.” 

“Don’t worry about the costumes. She’ll see that we 
get them before we hit the platform. She has probably 
got a police escort guarding them now. . . . Helen, shouldn’t 
we turn off the lights, so we can slink in unobserved till we 
get dressed ?” 

So they turned off the lights and crouched together 
again in what comfort they could, not at all worried, and 
jolted swiftly along the road toward the wrong wind-up. 

When the truck came into dense traffic, they proceeded 
more slowly but still steadily, for a way was cleared for 
them, with shrieking sirens, police whistles and the roar of 
motorcycles. The girls, having campaigned all summer, 
were used to having their way cleared for them. They got 
up on their knees on the benches that topped the filing 
cabinets and raised the narrow windows slightly, not 
enough to be seen but to keep sharp lookout for the trailer 
and Aunt Olympia. They were cold now and shivered in 
their damp robes. 

Suddenly Adele gave a sharp exclamation. “Helen! 
How nasty! Look at that. Someone has strung up a 
Wilkie banner ! How hateful !” 

“ ‘Vote for Governor Wilkie,’ ” read Helen amazedly. 
“Well, I suppose everything has to happen in a campaign.” 

“There’s another one,” said Limpy angrily. “ ‘A Good 

233 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


Governor Makes a Good Senator/ . . . Helen, look ! They’re 
all Wilkie banners ! I don’t see a Sloppy anywhere.” 

The truck pulled into the camp grounds where a space 
had been reserved and roped off for it. The girls still 
stared through the little darkened windows, hoping to es- 
cape the attention of news and cameramen until Aunt 
Olympia could come to the aid of the campaign with their 
costumes. 

‘Uirls,” Helen whispered suddenly. ‘‘Look! It’s the 
wrong rally! There’s Brother Wilkie on the platform. 
There’s Len Hardesty standing on the steps.” 

“Why, Ben’s brought us to the wrong rally!” said 
Adele. “You’d think he would know it by this time !” 

“He must be drunk,” said Helen. “I’ll tell him.” 

They ran to the front of the truck and banged furiously 
on the small locked doors that separated the driver’s seat 
from the body. They called, softly at first, then as loudly 
as they could scream, “Ben! Ben Baldy! Oh, Ben!” 

There was no answer. 

Spike O’Connor, having thus against all odds triumph- 
antly accomplished his delicate and difficult mission, had 
gone to receive the sweet reward of high success. Having 
drawn the truck into the enclosure, he had turned off the 
switch and leaped to the ground, where he now stood, hat 
in hand across proud breast, awaiting the glare of flood- 
lights, the explosion of photographer’s bulbs, the plaudits 
of the multitude. In the clamor, even if he heard the faint 
pounding and the screaming from the truck, it was softened 
and mellowed by the handclapping and cheers about him. 
He did not relinquish his pose ; it was a good one and he 
knew it. He waited motionless. 

234 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


The girls gave up at last and ran despairingly to the rear 
of the truck. Helen opened the door an,, inch or two, hoping 
to see some familiar or friendly face. But the surging sea 
of faces drove them swiftly back to the comparative safety 
of darkness. 

‘'Uncle Lancy’ll fire Ben Baldy for this,’’ said Adele. 

“Aunt Olympia’ll strangle him,” said Limpy. 

They climbed back to their narrow perches and peered 
interestedly through the small high windows to witness the 
Republican rally. Adele’s eyes clung to Len Hardesty’s 
lean face, where he stood alertly on the steps that led to the 
platform. Helen watched Brother Wilkie, hoping to pick 
up pointers for Brick Landis, but Limpy grinned amusedly 
at the seven children and the beldame, conspicuous in the 
front row of seats on the platform, a little to the left of 
Brother Wilkie, so that his figure would not hide them from 
public view. The Governor was evidently among friends, 
for he was getting a very good hand. 

Len Hardesty had been on intent lookout for the sound 
truck. There it came ! There it was. ! A faint semblance of 
a smile softened his set features. A stroke of genius ! It 
wouldn’t win the governor many votes perhaps, but it would 
certainly make talk, and better still, it would create laugh- 
ter. It would embarrass Sloppy. It would show Olympia 
he wasn’t to be sneezed at 

“Here’s the truck,” he wrote on a card and passed it up 
to the Governor. 

“Be ready with the lights*,” he said to the engineer who 
stood beside him. 

The Governor finished his paragraph. Then he paused 
dramatically. 


235 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


^‘My friends/' he bellowed suddenly, ‘Ve have charged 
that your representative in the Senate of the United 
States — ^Alengon Delaporte Slopshire — is a careless, in- 
different, inefficient man ! Too careless, too inefficient, to 
be trusted to safeguard the rights of this sovereign state I 
We have been challenged to produce proof of that charge ! 
Tonight, we bring that proof ! . . . Do you believe — is any 
child innocent enough to believe — ^that a man who cannot 
protect his own property, cannot preserve his own rights, 
cannot safeguard his own interests, can be trusted to safe- 
guard the property, the rights, the interests of our sovereign 
state ! Ladies and gentlemen, on this night of all nights in 
this campaign, at this crucial moment. Senator Slopshire 
has shown himself so careless, so inefficient, that he has 
allowed his own campaign sound truck to be driven off 
under his very nose ! Ladies and gentlemen — this is our 
proof ! We give you the Slopshire Sound Truck ! It stands 
before you!" 

‘‘Now !” said Len Hardesty to the engineer. 

Immediately floodlights from all over the park were 
flashed on that silent tomb, the Senator's sound truck. The 
girls crouched down out of sight below the small windows. 
Spike O’Connor, stern, unsmiling, accepted his honors with 
a stiff bow. A roar went up from the crowd, hand-clapping, 
cheers ; and boos for Slopshire. 

When the applause had somewhat subsided, the Gover- 
nor went on : 

“Here, my friends, you have actual, physical, incontro- 
vertible proof of our charge of inefficiency. In the face 
of this testimony, what can be said of the Senator's sagac- 
ity, his senatorial watch-care of our state's rights, his 
236 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


guardianship of the sacred privilege of our common citi- 
zenship? Tonight — ^at this hour — Senator Slopshire is sup- 
posed to be making an intensive drive for votes in this 
state, addressing gathered crowds through the microphone 
of this sound truck. This is the truck that carries his valu- 
able papers, his books, his files, his notes; as well as his 
loud-speaking equipment. Can you trust a man who can’t 
take care of his own property, to take care of yours ? 

‘‘Ah, ladies and gentlemen, in the Holy Book of our 
Fathers, in Divine Scripture, what is declared to be the 
fate of those wicked and slothful servants, who, not being 
faithful in small things, cannot be trusted with greater 
things ? Is it to him these words were spoken, ‘Well done, 
thou good and faithful servant; thou hast been faithful 
over a few things, I will make thee ruler over many things ?’ 
Ah, no! That wicked and slothful servant, careless, in- 
efficient, faithless in small things, is to be cast into* the outer 
darkness and there shall be weeping and gnashing of 
teeth. 

“But this Good Book of Guidance offers counsel and 
advice for all ; yea, even to the wicked and slothful servant, 
faithless in small things ! Come back with me to Proverbs, 
and read this admonition. ‘Go to the ant, thou sluggard ; 
consider her ways and be wise.’ ... Go to the ant. Senator 
Slopshire, consider her ways, and be wise.” 

Limpy could stand no more. “Give me that mike 1” she 
said passionately. “I’ll tell them a thing or two.” 

And as the roar of applause died down, suddenly the 
tomb of inefficiency found voice and spoke. Limpy, stand- 
ing tense and rigid between the cabinets, bawled bravely 
into the microphone. 


237 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


“Ladies and gentlemen ! Listen to me a minute ! It^s the 
most outrageous lie I ever heard 

Startled silence gripped the crowd. Was this a plant ? 
At any rate, it was dramatic. All eyes were riveted to the 
truck. 

“I'm Limpy Rutherford, and Senator Slopshire's my 
uncle and there never lived a better uncle than my Uncle 
Lancy. This is the most despicable outrage I ever heard 
of!" 

Len Hardesty collapsed on the bottom step. “Oh, my 
God, he swiped the kid with it I" he groaned. 

“Anyhow, he didn't cross the state line so they can’t get 
us on that,” said the engineer consolingly. 

“My Uncle Lancy is the most honorable, most gentle- 
manly, most — conscientious person that ever lived. I've 
lived with him a year and I ought to know. And he’s effi- 
cient, too. He's terribly efficient. I know his car hasn't run 
out of gas since we've been here, and that's efficient. You 
know Methodist preachers ! They're always running out of 
gas. Lots of times we ran out of gas on our way home from 
church. All preachers do. Do you call that efficient? 

“And he's a good Senator, too. Everybody in the Sen- 
ate just loves Uncle Lancy; even Republicans love him — 
all the important ones, that amount to anything. McNary 
just dotes on him, he said so himself. And Vandenburg 
thinks ever)i;hing in the world of Uncle Lancy. He told 
me if Uncle Lancy was a Republican he'd be presidential 
timber. And Uncle Lancy’s a good Christian, too, I don't 
care if he is a senator ! 

“I know all about the Scripture! I was brought up on 
the Bible ; the real Bible, I mean, not political propaganda. 
238 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


Doesn’t it say something in the Bible about a man who is a 
sneak in small things being a* sneak in big things, and if it 
wasn’t sneaking to swipe my Uncle’s truck, then I don’t 
know sneaks when I see. them. And doesn’t the Bible say, 
‘Do unto others as you would they should do unto you’ ? 

“Well, that’s the kind of a Christian my Uncle Lancy is ! 
Would he stoop to stealing Brother Wilkie’s sound truck — 
and commit thievery — just to win a few votes ? Certainly 
not! He wouldn’t think of it! Do you think for one 
minute my Uncle Lancy would steal Brother Wilkie’s 
brats ?” 

“Oh, Limpy, don’t say brats !” moaned Helen. 

“I mean children,” Limpy corrected herself hastily. “He 
wouldn’t do it, anyhow. He wouldn’t soil his fingeiis with 
them ! He’s too much of a gentleman and too much of a 
Christian and too good a senator. And even though I’m a 
Republican myself, if I had a vote, do you know who I’d 
vote for? I’d vote for Uncle Lancy — ^that’s who! I’d vote 
for him a thousand times if I could and go to jail for it, and 
it would be worth it, too. I’d be glad to go to- jail for 
Uncle Lancy. He — ^he’s a — swell — ^guy.” 

Tears began welling to Limpy ’s eyes. A lump rose in her 
throat. She struggled on. “My Uncle Lancy is — just — 
swell.” 

Limpy collapsed in a passion of tears on the floor of the 
truck. Helen grabbed Limpy. Adele grabbed the micro- 
phone. 

Suddenly her low, even voice swept over the crowd, still 
gripped in awed, electrical silence. 

“My sister is perfectly right. Every word she said is the 
gospel truth. I’m Adele.” 


239 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


“Oh, my God, he got them all !” gasped Len Hardesty, 
and started for the truck. 

“I have never been so shocked in my life,” continued 
Adele. “I just wouldn’t have believed a Methodist preacher 
would stoop to it! Our Methodist preachers in Iowa 
wouldn’t do it 1 That’s not the kind of preachers we have. 
And if Brother Wilkie is so fond of the Scripture, he’d 
better read up on that handwriting on the wall business; if 
he doesn’t see handwriting tonight, he will next Tuesday !” 

“Play, you idiots !” roared Brother Wilkie, and the band 
swept, too late, into the cheerful strains of “Don’t you weep 
for me.” 

But already the crowd had moved away from the plat- 
form and was massing around the sound truck, once more 
standing silent, grim and tomblike. Reporters nosed closer, 
closer. Cameras turned on it from every direction. Light 
bulbs exploded. Len Hardesty pushed his way through. 
He beat on the door of the truck. 

“Adele ! Open this door 1 Come out of that truck I” 

Adele opened the door. Light flashed about her, cameras 
clicked, the crowd roared. Adele, wide-eyed, fair damp 
curls clustering about her pale face, slim bare legs shivering 
beneath the short damp cape, stood clearly revealed. Helen, 
with the weeping Limpy in her arms, was behind her. 

Len took one look. “Adele 1” he roared. “Get back in 
that truck and put on your clothes.” 

“We haven’t any clothes,” said Adele pathetically. “They 
stole our clothes, too.” Her teeth chattered nervously. 
“We’re half-frozen.” And she slammed the door. 

Len Hardesty flung himself against it, facing the cheer- 
ing, laughing crowd. He was haggard and wild-eyed. 

240 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


“Smash those cameras he cried to the police. “Break 
those plates ! Get those pictures 

But the officers, looking somewhat belligerent though 
working for the Opposition, made no move. This, they 
thought, was spreading it on pretty thick. It looked like a 
case for the G-Men to them. 

The crowd, too, was beginning to mutter, almost menac- 
ingly. This, definitely, was carrying things too far, even 
in a mud-slinging campaign. 

And then, from the distance, came the roar of approach- 
ing motors, the shriek of sirens, the scream of police whis- 
tles. Nearer, nearer ! 

“Oh, my God, it’s the police!” groaned Len Hardesty. 
“Well, they’ll get into this truck over my dead body !” 

And he planted himself more firmly against the door of 
the truck, both arms outstretched, a figure of grim defiance. 


241 


Chapter XIV 


It was the police — 3 , thoroughly outraged and vengeful 
police escort, reinforced by a dozen or more additional offi- 
cers from Uncle Lancy’s big rally. The escort was offended 
to the depths of its being. It is true, it had not been in the 
immediate vicinity of the commission of this crime against 
law and order. Still, it had been detailed to the Senator 
for the campaign, and to have three girls and a sound truck 
kidnaped from under its nose, as it were, was certainly 
going to make talk. It might even instigate an investiga- 
tion. At the very least it would hold the police force in 
general — and this detail in painful particular — up to public 
scorn and ridicule. So the faces of the escort were grim 
and set. The police would get back their orphans or die 
trying. 

The roaring onsweep of motors was the noisy approach 
of the Senator and Aunt Olympia, in pursuit of their chil- 
dren. 

Aunt Olympia never forgave her subconscious for not 
affording her some premonition of what was to happen 
that fateful night. She hadn’t so much as a suspicion. She 
had gone off with the cars and the trailer in a state of sub- 
lime, if somewhat weary, complacency; she was certainly 
taking good care of those girls. She had said they should 
have a day of rest and they were getting a day of rest. 
Nothing like a little exercise and a lot of water to soak the 
242 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


jadedness out of your nervous- system; that was Aunt 
Olympia’s opinion. 

A beaming Madonna with a clear conscience and a red 
face, she accompanied the Senator on his last trek ; received 
with him the plaudits of the crowds, accepted bouquets, and 
at Millsville dimpled rosily over the handsome evening bag 
presented with a good deal of ceremony. She listened aL 
tentively to the Senator’s speeches, applauding good points, 
the incarnation of devoted* wifeliness and temporary 
motherhood. 

Eventually they arrived at the last round-up, Trentfare. 
There she received her fourth bouquet, the others being 
left out of sight on the floor of the automobile. She didn’t 
mind at all because the girls* were late. 

‘‘God knows they n^ed a rest from all the speech- 
making,” she thought leniently. “They’ll get here in time 
for the wind-up — in those costumes — looking like angels. 
They’ll be a sensation. They’ll cinch every floater for miles 
around.” 

She smiled, she shook hands, she acknowledged intro- 
ductions and toyok bows, and then fluttered down in her 
chair with modest decorum. But she couldn’t help keeping 
watch for the girls. Her fond eyes yearned for the blessed 
sight of them, in those works of art. 

Just as the Senator was getting well launched in what 
was to be the climactic closing speech of the campaign, sud- 
denly the haggard face of Ben Baldy appeared at the side* 
door of the platform. He waved grimy hands toward Aunt 
Olympia, he shook his head, he scowled. Someone seated 
near the door whispered to him. A message trickled along 
the front row until it reached Aunt Olympia. 

“He wants to speak to you.” 


243 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


Even then Aunt Olympia was not startled. It was the 
girls, of course; probably wanting to know whether they 
should come right on or wait until the Senator had finished. 
She rose, carrying the huge bouquet, and tiptoed over the 
feet of the front-row honor guests on the platform, whis- 
pering apologies, until she reached the door. 

With a big, soiled finger Ben motioned her to come a 
little farther. 

‘^Mis’ Slopshire,” he whispered tersely. ‘‘They swiped 
our girls.” 

Olympia drew herself together into her familiar posture 
of hauteur. 

“Baldy, have you been drinking ?” 

“I wish to God I had been,” he answered, in a voice 
both evasive and devout. “Brother Wilkie done it. They 
swiped the sound truck and the girls along with it while I 
was — snatching a bite. A cop brought me in a side car.” 

“B/other Wilkie — ^swiped — ” she said quaveringly, her 
knees going weak. 

“Republicans, anyhow. And rushed ’em off seventy 
miles an hour — ^to the other rally.” 

“Where are the girls, Ben, where are my girls?” she 
demanded, her voice going swiftly crescendo*. 

“They’re swiped.” 

“But where are they now ? What’s happened to them ?” 

“They’re still swiped.” 

Aunt Olympia was game to the depths of her being. Even 
to this catastrophe, she arose with rampant resourcefulness. 

“We must head off the Senator,” she said. “He’ll kill 
Brother Wilkie for this! . . . Wait here, Baldy. I’ll go 
down front and catch his eye.” 

244 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


The Senator, working up to one of his best points, was a 
good deal surprised to see a pale and grim-lipped Olympia 
appear before him below the speaker’s stand. Her rightful 
place was in a good position on the platform. But even a 
pale Olympia gave him courage. Not a bad idea, getting 
down there where he could catch her glare. Olympia, who 
had a stimulating effect on perfect strangers, was almost 
intoxicating to the Senator. 

He went on, with greater eloquence. In- the burst of ap- 
plause that followed the paragraph, he glanced compla- 
cently down for a beam of approval. Imagine his amaze- 
ment to see Olympia silently weeping, swabbing at her 
under-chin. The Senator tried desperately to recall if he 
had said anything of a pathetic nature to arouse her emo- 
tions, but there had been no pathos in this speech ; this was 
a fighting speech and Olympia never cried over fights. He 
gazeff at her distractedly. Falteringly he took up the next 
paragraph, but he couldn’t get his mind off Olympia, sob- 
bing silently almost beneath his feet. 

‘'Clap, boys,” he whispered to those behind him on the 
packed platform. 

Accepting the cue, they broke into hearty applause, and 
the audience joined willingly enough. Taking advantage of 
this interval, the Senator leaned over the rostrum. 

“What’s the matter?” 

“The Republicans stole the children. Kidnaped them. 
They’ve got the children.” 

“What!” 

She nodded her head, tears streaming down a face in 
which the last vestige of rose had faded, even to her lips. 
“Stole them. Got them. All of them. ” 


245 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


The Senator rose to dramatic heights of which even 
Olympia had never dreamed he was capable. He towered 
to a height which was really impressive for his somewhat 
slight stature. He raised his hand for silence. He leaned 
forward again. 

“What did you say, my dear he asked, clearly. 

“Brother Wilkie stole our truck and kidnaped our chil- 
dren. They took them to the other rally.” 

The Senato'r raised both arms. Mild though he was sup- 
posed to* be, the united Opposition would have quailed be- 
fore his look at that moment. 

“My friends,” he said, and there was, the venom of mur- 
der in his voice. As for the sweating throng, this being a 
decided innovation in a campaign; which had not been dull, 
an almost unearthly silence gripped it. 

“My friends, I came here tonight prepared to answer 
briefly, decisively, every issue that has been raised in this 
campaign. But my campaign is ended at this moment. I 
shall not continue my speech. I am obliged to leave you. I 
have just learned that the Opposition, reduced in their 
extremity to dastardly deeds of violence, have stolen those 
three children who are dearer to my wife and me than our 
very lives. They have taken our children. Ladies and 
gentlemen, I relinquish the campaign; I leave it in your 
hands. For myself, I go to rescue our girls from this act 
of wanton depravity. Let your votes fall where they may.” 

He leaped nimbly down from the platform and put his 
arm a,round Olympia. The audience waited in taut silence, 
anticipating some further, exciting denouement. But Jim 
Allen, the state chairman, did not wait. He, too, leaped 
from the platform and caught the Senator by the arm*. 

246 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


“Senator, for God’s sake, you can’t do that!” he said. 
“You* can’t walk out on us 1 You’ll offend every Democrat 
in the state. The kids will be all right. Nobody’ll hurt ’em. 
But we’ve got every county chairman in the state here; 
we’ve got committees from every club; they’ll never for- 
give you.” 

The Senator drew himself up. 

“Unhand me, Jim,” he said thickly. 

“You can’t go. Senator; I won’t permit it; I’ve worked 
too damn hard on this!” 

The Senator let go of Olympia. He took his glasses 
carefully in his left hand. He doubled his right fist, rose 
toweringly on his toes — Jim was a tall man — and delivered 
a surprisingly straight, clean uppercut to Jim Allen’s face. 
Jim Allen, felled more by surprise, than by the force of the 
blow, sank to the floor. 

“Come, Olympia!” said the Senator, gently, replacing 
his glasses. 

Olympia, even in this crisis, did not forget that she was 
a lady. As she stepped, carefully, though blinded with 
weeping, over the prostrate form* of Jim Allen, she hesi- 
tated long enough to murmur, “So sorry, Jim !” And the 
Senator led her away. 

The crowd waited. . . . There would be another act, of 
course. . . . On the whole, it was well-pleased. The con- 
stituents had had three months* of speechmaking and band 
music and handshaking. A kidnaping was something new. 
So they waited. 

Olympia was pushed into the rear seat of the big car. 
The Senator clambered after her and took her in his arms. 

“Be brave, my dear, be calm,” he said, through clenched 

247 * 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


teeth, and the cameramen got a very good flash of them, 
the Senator looking stern and noble, with Olympia in his 
arms, weeping like Rachel for her lost children. Police 
cleared the way. The big car rolled off. 

The crowd was a little surprised to hear the roaring of 
motors as the car went off. But they waited. They would 
be back, probably, in five minutes, with the lovely young 
girls in tow. But when Jim Allen, slowly rallying, strug- 
gled to his feet, wiping blood from his face, they rose in- 
stinctively. If that blood wasn’t beet juice, this was real 
drama. Jim Allen was helped to the platform. 

'‘Ladies and gentlemen !” he roared, still mopping blood. 
“That’s our candidate! That’s the man we Democrats 
stand for I What’s an election to a man whose home has 
been ravaged ? What are votes to a Democrat whose most 
sacred feelings have been profaned ? That’s the candidate 
we give you — one who will knock down his state chairman 
to go to the aid of his children I Ladies and gentlemen, do 
what you like with this rally. I’m going to help our candi- 
date rescue our children 1” 

Evidently, then, it was no plant. As the constituents 
streamed out of the auditorium following Jim Allen, whose 
nose continued to bleed with theatrical profusion, their 
resentment rose. These were their orphans who had been 
subjected to this outrage 1 

“Call the police 1” “Get out the G-Men 1” “Give us our 
children 1” “Down with Wilkie I” “Were the police asleep ?” 

A pandemonium of cars swept away in the wake of the 
Senator. The wind-up rally joined the rescue. A dozen 
busses, hastily filled, followed more slowly. Only those 
luckless ones remained who had come on foot or by train 
248 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


and had no emergency conveyance. These, left behind, 
eventually clustered together and burst into noisy impreca- 
tions of the Opposition, interspersed with cheers for 
Sloppy, boos for Wilkie, and finally fell into a sustained 
chant : 

‘‘We want our orphans! We want our orphans! We 
want our orphans !’’ 

Unfortunately, the Senator and Aunt Olympia were 
unaware of this loyal demonstration. They had retired 
from the campaign in a dead silence, over the prostrate 
form of good old Jim Allen, the state chairman; followed, 
so far as they knew, by the unbounded indignation oi an 
offended constituency. 

For twenty noisy miles, Olympia was satisfied to sob on 
the Senator's breast, in which burned a volcano of sup- 
pressed passion. Finally she found voice. 

“I only wanted them — to rest a little, Del,” she said 
humbly. “I left Ben to bring them. I thought of course 
they would be safe.” 

“Be calm, my dear, be brave,” said the Senator, patting 
her shoulder with a hand that itched for Brother Wilkie’s 
throat. 

“If they’ve harmed a hair of those children’s heads,” 
moaned Olympia, “I’ll choke him with my bare hands, 
preacher or no preacher. . . . And what’s more. I’ll sue 
him.” 

“Be calm, Ollie, be brave,” crooned the Senator, between 
set teeth. 

So it was Aunt Olympia and the Senator, with a bellig- 
erent police escort, who roared into the Republican rally at 
Lancaster. 


249 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


As soon as the car came to a halt, the Senator crawled 
over Olympiads feet and started to get out. 

‘‘You stay here ! This is no place for a woman ! This is 
going to be a knock-down, drag-out engagement 

His ferocity terrified Aunt Olympia. She was as mad 
as he was, and just as determined to fight it out. But she 
wished he would leave it to her. After all, her first responsi- 
bility was the Senator. She grabbed him with both hands. 
After the wear and tear of the long campaign, at his age, 
in his state of health, he was not physically able to cope 
with a set of blackguards who would stoop to such depths 
of lawlessness. He must not impair his dignity by engag- 
ing in a common street brawl with ruffians. Besides, he 
would get his glasses broken. So she hung on and was 
drawn with him from the tonneau. 

And the first thing she saw was Len Hardesty, standing 
with both arms outstretched against the rear door of the 
sound truck, from which the police had gradually edged 
the crowd away. 

“Len Hardesty — ^you — ^you give me my children! You 
let them right out of there this minute or Til call the 
police 1” 

“Shut up, Olympia,’’ he said. “They can’t come out 
They haven’t any clothes on !” 

“They haven’t any clothes — ” Suddenly Aunt Olympia 
remembered. She had forgotten to take the suitcase 
from the trailer. “Del!” she cried. “They’ll — catch 
their death of cold!” And would have collapsed, had 
she not been supported by the Senator and a couple of 
policemen. 

The girls, watching from the narrow little windows at 
the top of the rear door, had seen the beloved and shelter- 
250 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 

ing, though agitated, figures of the Senator and Aunt 
Olympia. 

Limpy opened the door defiantly. 

‘Xen Hardesty!” she screamed. “You give me my 
Uncle Lancy, this minute 1 You give him right here 1” The 
defiant voice then rose to a familiar wail “Aw, Uncle 
Lancy I” 

When had Uncle Lancy heard that appeal in vain ? He 
did not hesitate a moment. He relinquished Olympia to the 
arms of the policemen with all the dignity of an old 
Roman, in smart fall coat instead of toga, and bore down 
on the truck. He didn’t say a word. He waved his arm and 
Len Hardesty stood aside. The Senator stumbled up the 
steps. 

“My poor children — ” he began. But Limpy interrupted. 

“Come over here to this mike and give them a piece of 
your mind,” she ordered. “They said the most outrageous 
things about you. They said you were a hopeless inefficient 
and turned the lights on us to prove it. Tell them. Uncle 
Lancy !” 

“My dear — ” he remonstrated gently. 

“Here’s the mike,” said Limpy. 

There was only one thing to do in the presence of a 
microphone. Uncle Lancy cleared his throat. 

“Ladies and gentlemen!” he roared. 

The bands, which had been instructed to stop playing 
when the speeches began, stopped at the first syllable. The 
musicians wanted to get over to the truck themselves and 
see what was going on. 

“Ladies and gentlemen of the Opposition!” went on 
the Senator. “This is Senator Slopshire addressing you 
from my own sound truck which was in dastardly fashion 

251 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


stolen by one I have loved and trusted for many years. I 
shall neither love nor trust him again. ... So I am accused 
of inefficiency, eh ? Well, if to put trust in a man by whom 
I have been led in prayer, at whose pulpit I have sat for 
spiritual guidance, who has blessed my food — which I 
gladly shared with him — if to put trust in that man is in- 
efficient, then I plead guilty! Yes! I am a hopeless in- 
efficient ! I did trust him ! 

“This is the closing night of my campaign for re- 
election. Thousands had gathered at Trent fare to hear my 
final message and my summary of the issues of this cam- 
paign. But the instant I heard that these children of mine 
had been ruthlessly snatched from the swimming pool and 
dragged away on this chilly autumn night in thin bathing 
suits, still wet from swimming — ^when I heard that, I 
stopped in the middle of a sentence. I waived the issues. I 
relinquished the campaign. I sacrificed any votes to be 
gained there, and rushed here at full speed to save my 
children. If that is inefficiency, yes! I am a hopeless in- 
efficient ! 

“Crouched beside me, here in my sound truck, are these 
three girls, three American children, bereaved young or- 
phans. They are still in the wet bathing suits they wore 
when kidnaped, they are shivering and blue with cold. 
Their very lives have been endangered by this despicable 
act. I could stand here for hours expounding the issues 
of this campaign; it is a great opportunity; but I relinquish 
that opportunity. I sacrifice any votes to be gained here. 
I go to take my children to warmth and comfort; I go 
to see them safe in their little beds, with what precautions 
may be taken to save them from the danger of this terrible 
252 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


exposure they have suffered. If that is inefficiency, ladies 
and gentlemen, yes ! I am a hopeless inefficient.” 

“Give them some Bible,” said Limpy grimly, “They used 
Bible on you.” 

The Senator hesitated briefly. He hadn’t been brought 
up on the Bible like Brother Wilkie and the girls. He had 
a special clerk to handle his quotations. He tried desper- 
ately to remember something. 

“ ‘As ye sow, so shall ye reap,’ ” he finally roared. “I 
thank you.” 

“Come on, girls,” he ordered and immediately left the 
truck. Again cameras were grinding, lights flashing. The 
Senator saw nothing, heard nothing. As he told Olympia 
afterward, he was so burned up he didn’t even remember 
making a speech. 

“Come on,” he thundered to the girls from the bottom 
of the steps. 

They hung back shyly, fearing the crowd, the cameras, 
the lights. 

“I’ll go first,” said Helen bravely. “Stop crying, Limpy. 
Keep your head up ! We’ve nothing to be ashamed of.” 

Very pale, unsmiling, with young head high — dignified, 
even with wet curls clinging to brow and cheeks — Helen 
went down. Adele followed, looking straight ahead of her, 
eyes wide, lashes unlowered. 

“Oh, my darling,” groaned Len Hardesty as she passed, 
but she did not turn her head. 

She was shivering; more from nervous excitement than 
from cold, for their heated emotions had warmed them. 
But the crowd did not know that. Angry cries went up. 
Opposition though they were. 


253 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


‘‘Disgraceful!” “Disgusting I” “Poor things!” “Isn’t 
she lovely?” 

A lady took off her fur scarf and placed it on Adele’s 
shoulders. “Take it, darling,” she said sympathetically. 
“Til come and get it some time.” 

Limpy came last, looking small and woebegone, with 
childish, tear-stained voice. She could not raise her eyes, 
she could not see. Uncle Lancy was waiting for her. As 
she stumbled weeping on the step, with a grand gesture he 
took off his smart fall coat and put it about her, picked her 
up in his arms and carried her to the door of the car. 

Aunt Olympia tried to take her away from him, but the 
Senator was firm about that. He held her tightly. There 
was a little confusion getting into the car. Helen and 
Adele had hurriedly crept into the rear seat, but since both 
Uncle Lancy and Olympia wanted to sit with Limpy, they 
got out, huddled now in warm automobile robes generously 
contributed by tearful sympathizers and got in the front 
seat with the driver. Martin was at the wheel, Ben Baldy 
being so wrought up over the occurrence he could not be 
trusted to drive carefully. 

Limpy at last was warmly ensconced between uncle and 
aunt, each with an arm around her and trying to pull her 
away from the other. 

“Leave her alone, Ollie,” said the Senator, with un- 
accustomed acerbity. “Pm trying to warm her up.” 

“I’m warmer than you are, Del !” she said angrily. “Her 
place is in a mother’s arms !” 

Limpy diplomatically continued to weep bitterly and sub- 
mitted to pulling from both sides. 

“Home, Martin, fast !” said the Senator. 

254 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


“But drive carefully/’ said Aunt Olympia. “An acci- 
dent would make them nervous.” 

For many miles the car sped along in complete silence 
except for the screaming sirens of the biggest police escort 
accorded any candidate in any state in the 1938 campaign. 
Finally, in a small voice, Limpy spoke. 

“Uncle Lancy, perhaps Fd better make a clean breast of 
it,” she said humbly. “You may as well know the worst. 
I — I made a — sort of a speech.” 

Uncle Lancy patted her knee with his free hand. “Did 
you indeed?” he said heartily. “That was nice of you, 
Limpy.” 

“It wasn’t so hot,” she confessed. “I’m afraid it was a 
little too — extemporaneous. ... I didn’t seem to have much 
to say.” 

“I have the same trouble myself,” said the Senator en- 
couragingly. “I often wonder how I can talk as long as I 
do when I have so very little to say.” 

“What did you say, Limpy?” asked Aunt Ol3mipia, 
jealously edging into the conversation. 

“Oh, I didn’t say much,” admitted Limpy. “I — I just 
said Uncle Lancy is — a swell guy.” 

Uncle Lancy was so touched that he started to reach for 
his glasses but remembering just in time that Aunt 
Olympia would get Limpy away from him if he did, he 
resigned himself and settled back in the fog. 

“A very commendable sentiment,” he said approvingly. 
“I’ve often wanted to say the same thing but I never could 
find just the opportune moment for it. You have to get a 
good break to work in a thing like that. I congratulate you, 
my dear.” 


255 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


“Be quiet/’ said Olympia rudely. “The girls are too 
tired to be talked to.” 

Hilda, though she had not expected them for hours, 
received them dourly but without surprise. She did not 
even raise an eyebrow at sight of the girls, in swim suits, 
swathed in automobile robes. It was not easy to surprise 
Hilda. 

“Where are the prizes?” she inquired, with irritable 
interest. 

“Prizes !” boomed Aunt Olympia. 

“Wasn’t it a beauty contest?” said Hilda. “Seems as 
if to me they’re dressed for it.” 

She helped Aunt Olympia give them hot baths and rub 
them down with rough warm towels ; gave them all the hot 
lemonade they could drink and warmed their beds with 
hot-water bottles. Uncle Lancy telephoned the doctor to 
find what preventive measures should be taken and was 
relieved to learn that everything that had been done was 
the right thing, and that they need only be kept warm and 
quiet until they had thoroughly recuperated. 

“And if they catch anything, we’ll see what to do next,” 
said the Doctor, which Uncle Lancy faithfully retailed to 
Aunt Olympia. 

As a final precaution. Aunt Olympia made each take an 
aspirin and five grains of quinine. Hilda closed the win- 
dows and lowered the blinds. 

“Now, just calm down, my dears, and go to sleep,” said 
Aunt Olympia soothingly. “If you feel wakeful or nervous 
or a chill coming on, ring immediately for Hilda and she’ll 
give you more hot lemonade and quinine. And thank God 
it’s over. You’ve been to Waterloo and now you are safe 
256 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


and warm in your little beds on St. Helena. Don’t get up 
tomorrow. You can have your meals in bed.. There’ll be 
quite a rumpus and more damned reporters nosing around, 
but keep your door shut and I’ll strangle a few, if necessary. 
Stay in bed a week if you want to. I’ll very likely stay with 
you. And don’t worry. I’ll bring you Len Hardesty’s head 
on a platter first time I get my hands on him.” 

Then she turned off the lights and closed the door. 

She headed at once for the room she shared, rather 
grudgingly, with the Senator. 

‘‘Another pitcher of hot lemonade for the Senator,” she 
said to Hilda over her shoulder. “Some whisky and an- 
other box of aspirin and a hot-water bottle and plain water 
for me. Plenty of whisky.” 

The Senator was already in nightshirt and bathrobe and 
warm slippers. He was smoking a cigarette. 

“Did you take their temperature ?” he demanded. “Did 
they have a chill ?” 

“I wish you’d be more grammatical, Del,” she said 
irritably. “How can three girls have one temperature and 
one chill? Did you change to your flannel nightshirt?” 

“My dear, it’s a very mild night. You know I never 
change to flannel till the first snow.” 

“It’s a chilly night, or I miss my guess ! I’ve got trouble 
enough without pneumonia.” She fished roughly about in 
a drawer and produced the flannels. “Change,” she ordered 
briskly. “And be quick about it.” 

The Senator made the exchange rather than start an 
argument. 

“Did they seem feverish ?” he asked. 

“If Limpy caught cold — and she’s still shivery — I’ll sue 

257 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


that louse/’ said Aunt Olympia, to whom sueing was a far 
more menacing procedure than a mere wringing of necks. 
“In fact, Fm not sure but I’ll stand on my constitutional 
rights and sue the American system. You’d better get in 
bed, Del. Here comes Hilda with your lemonade and 
whisky. You’d better take these two quinine, first.” 

“You only gave them one quinine,” he remonstrated. 

“More grammar. One apiece,” she reproved him severe- 
ly. “Anyhow, you’re older than they are and have less 
reaction. ... You don’t feel anything coming on, do 
you?” 

The Senator got into bed. “Yes, I feel a fade-out coming 
on,” he said, with a smile that was not rueful. “And it 
was. worth it. Did you hear me take the hide off Brother 
Wilkie?” 

“If he just manages to trip over that carpet they black- 
mailed me into buying and breaks his neck, it’ll be cheap 
at the price. . . . Give him two jiggers, Hilda.” 

Olympia herself declined the lemonade and took whisky 
straight, followed by plain water. 

“You’ve had a pretty easy summer, so it won’t make 
any difference if you lose a little sleep tonight, Hilda,” she 
said. “I want you to keep an eye on the girls and if any 
of them seems to be catching anything, you call me imme- 
diately and ’phone the doctor. And don’t disturb us. Don’t 
ever disturb us again as long as we live. If anybody calls 
up, you say the Senator’s running for chief shiek of the 
Unit^ Mohammedans and is in a conference with Allah. 
If reporters come, give them rat poison. We don’t want 
to see anybody or hear anything for the next six months. 
If you need help, call the police.” 

258 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


“Won’t you be wanting coffee?” asked Hilda, almost 
hopefully. 

“Yes. We’ll be wanting coffee when we ring for it and 
that’s all we will be wanting. Be sure to keep an eye on 
the girls and let me know if they start chills or fever. . . . 
Coffee, nothing else.” 

“Won’t you be wanting the morning papers ?” 

“Heavens, Ollie!” ejaculated the Senator, and the un- 
wonted profanity showed how wrought up he was. “I 
forgot the press. Do you suppose they got pictures?” 

“Well, thank God the girls have straight legs,” said 
Olympia. “No, Hilda. No papers ! Never any more pa- 
pers as long as we live ! Good night, Hilda. Go and look 
in on the girls, will you? If they need anything, let me 
know.” 

When the door had closed on Hilda, Olympia turned off 
the lights and for ten full minutes a deep and serene silence 
held the room. But Aunt Olympia was uneasy. The Sena- 
tor, poor dumb cluck, could lie there catching anything and 
never even recognize his s)miptoms. Unable to endure her 
uneasiness, she turned on the lights and gave him a straight 
look. 

He was lying — ^bland, near-sighted eyes wide open — 
with a broad smile on his pink, seraphic face. 

“Can I get you something?” he said, politely. 

“No,” said Olympia. “What are you smiling about? 
Do you feel hysterical?” 

“Oh, no,” said the Senator gently. And then added, with 
modest diffidence, “Ollie, did you notice the terrific wallop 
I gave Jim Allen? He went down like a ton of brick. I 
never realized my own strength.” 


259 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 

‘‘Yes, I noticed it,” said Olympia, sadly, turning off the 
light. 

“You know, Ollie,” he went on, with shy boastfulness, 
“all my life Eve dreamed of some Lochinvar who would 
knock out a state chairman. But naturally I never expected 
to do it myself. You know, Ollie, I know history pretty 
well, and as far as I know Fm absolutely unique. I never 
heard of a United States Senator retiring over the prostrate 
form of his state chairman.” 

“It’s too bad it couldn’t have been the Opposition chair- 
man,” said Olympia, dully, for she was bruised in spirit. 

“That wouldn’t be the same, Ollie,” he said contentedly. 
“Not at all the same.” 


260 


Chapter XV 


Hilda went to the girls’ room. 

They had the lights turned on again and were sitting 
up in bed, talking nervously, in broken sentences, interrupt- 
ing each other. Limpy, being sad and lonely, had got in 
Helen’s bed for company. Hilda hadn’t the faintest idea 
what had transpired and was too proud to ask, but she 
was apt at picking up shreds and piecing them together. 
And any dunce could see that something had gone wrong. 

She glowered at the girls. 

‘T should report this to your aunt,” she said, carefully 
closing the door behind her to keep Aunt Olympia from 
hearing. 

‘‘Oh, don’t, Hilda,” said Helen. “She’s had a ghastly 
time! She will go all to pieces if she doesn’t get a little 
rest.” 

“If you got fever, I got to report it,” she said firmly, 
staring suspiciously at the three faces, now flushed scarlet. 

“We haven’t any fever. We’re just warmed up from 
the lemonade and the hot-water bottles,” Helen assured 
her. 

“We got warm too suddenly after being cold and wet all 
evening,” Adele explained. 

“I should have been took along,” said Hilda. “I knew 
she couldn’t be trusted to keep anybody dry.” 

“Oh, she couldn’t help it! She had so much on her 

261 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


mind, you know ! She had our clothes all packed up ready 
for us but she forgot to put them in the sound truck. That's 
all.” 

Hilda pondered this frowningly. 

There came the unmistakable crunch of motors pulling 
up to the garage. It was Dave Cooper, Cecil Dodd, the 
stenographers and the dejected Ben Baldy, arriving with 
the sound truck and the trailer. Almost immediately came a 
peal at the bell. 

‘T got to go get (Alt my rat poison,” said Hilda. “Lay 
down, now, and let me turn off these lights. Mis' Slopshire 
was firm about them lights.” 

She turned off the lights and before she was halfway 
downstairs Adele had turned them on again and the girls 
were sitting erect, talking in whispers. 

Hilda pieced a good deal together when she admitted 
Dave, Cecil and the two stenographers. Before Dave could 
demand audience with the Senator, Cecil Dodd ordered her 
to show him Limpy. 

Hilda gave him an icy glare. “It's not the habit of this 
house to admit publicity to their young ladies,” she said. 

“Are they all right ? Is she all right ? Did she catch cold ? 
Is she still crying?” 

“They were half — or maybe not quite half — ^asleep when 
I saw 'em, which was just now,” said Hilda. 

“We've got to see the Senator,” said Dave briskly. “Will 
he come down or shall we go up there?” 

“It'll be neither,” said Hilda, squaring her angular 
shoulders. “I got my orders and I'm keeping them. No- 
body. Nothing. Not anything. Nothing for six months 
but coffee.” 

262 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


Dave and Cecil went into an argument and their anger, 
their uneasiness, their explosive bursts of profanity, 
soothed Hilda to her normal state of irritation. 

'Tf you're going to sleep here,” she said, ‘Til show you 
to your rooms and lock you in. That's my orders. I don't 
think they meant the rat poison for you but I'm taking no 
chances.'' 

“How did they take it, Hilda?'' asked Dave. 

“They took it hard,'' said Hilda. “I never saw 'em take 
things harder.” 

“Is Limpy still crying?” asked Cecil Dodd. 

“If she is, it's in her sleep and continues in the same 
place,” said Hilda. 

“Will you take a message up to the Senator ?” 

“I’ll take nothing up but coffee and that not till I'm rung 
for. I'll show you your rooms — ” 

“And lock the door. Yeah, I know. Well, we’re not 
going to bed. Make us some coffee, will you? . . . It's 
probably better just to let them sleep it out, Cece, and we'll 
get busy. We'll use this room, Hilda; no, the library's 
better; we'll need the 'phone. Get out your typewriters, 
boys. I'll do my 'phoning first. Bring us some coffee, 
Hilda, and fix us up some sandwiches, will you ?” 

“And a shot of whisky,” added Cecil Dodd. 

Hilda assented to all that but before she left the room 
she gave one last warning. “If I catch anybody sne’aking up 
toward my young ladies, I got my orders and I brain ’em,” 
she said. 

She went upstairs at once and as she had expqcted found 
the girls up in bed again. 

“The publicity's come and are going to work all night 

263 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 

with coffee and whisky. Would you feel more sleepy if you 
saw them ?” 

‘‘Oh, no, Hilda!” 

“Oh, please Hilda ! Don’t let us see them !” 

“Can’t they go someplace else and work?” moaned 
Adele. “Do they have to work here ?” 

“It’s usual,” said Hilda. “Until they get fired. Have 
they been fired ?” she asked hopefully. 

“No, worse luck, they haven’t.” 

“Oh, let them work if they want to,” said Helen reason^ 
ably. “They won’t bother us. Just keep them away from 
us, Hilda!” 

Hilda almost smiled. Keeping people away was the 
pleasantest thing she had to do. 

She went down to the kitchen and, as she was preparing 
food anyway, she fixed an extra trayful of sandwiches and 
cakes for the girls and a small pot of coffee. 

The girls were sick at heart. They writhed at thought of 
the ignominy to which they had been subjected, the humili- 
ation they had been forced to endure. Helen wept to think 
what Brick Landis would think of all this, and what a 
laughingstock she would be if she ever did marry him and 
go with him to Congress. Adele did not weep ; she could 
not weep; it was too terrible, too tragic. Her heart, she 
thought, was simply broken within her. That Len Hard- 
esty would do this to her — and to her sisters ! What made 
it a thousand times more bitter was the burning, half-buried 
knowledge that she could not entirely hoJd it against him, 
couldn’t quite quit loving him. 

Limpy was in abysmal depths of contrition for her 
childish outburst. 

264 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


‘T can’t imagine what made me do it!” she moaned 
again and again. “I never dreamed of doing such a thing ! 
Why, oh, why didn’t you stop me? If only Aunt Olympia 
had been there to give me her shut-upping look! It’s be- 
cause I was out of sight, that’s what drove me to it I If I 
could have caught somebody’s eye. I’d never have said a 
word. If he’s defeated it will be all my fault, and I’d do 
anything in the world for Uncle Lancy for he’s a swell guy, 
just as I said.” 

‘T thought you did fine, Limpy,” said Adele consolingly. 
‘T was proud of you. I couldn’t think of a thing to say 
myself. I could only shout ‘Me, too.’ ” 

Hilda entered with the tray. 

“Since everybody’s eating, I brought some along up 
with me.” 

“Oh, we can’t eat, Hilda 1” said Helen. 

“Food would choke us,” said Adele. 

“We’re heartbroken, Hilda,” said Limpy, more confi- 
dentially. “I don’t suppose we’ll ever eat again as long as 
we live.” 

“And the sooner we die the better,” added Adele. 

“I put salted nuts on, too,” said Hilda. “There’s a fresh 
box.” 

“Well, I might just nibble a pecan or two,” said Limpy, 
weakening and reaching for the box. 

“They’re good sandwiches, if I do say it, with lettuce and 
ham and cheese all together the way you like it ; and butter 
on both sides. I only gave them ham and butter one side 
downstairs,” said Hilda. “You sleep easier on a full 
stomach.” 

“We haven’t had anything to eat since that fried chicken 

265 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


you sent up, Hilda,’ ' said Adele, suddenly remembering. 
“It seems weeks, doesn’t it?” 

“Poor Uncle Lancy,” murmured Limpy, fishing for 
pecans. “He was so — fond — of the Senate.” 

“It’s a good thing, in my opinion,” said Hilda darkly, 
having gathered that the Senator was doomed. “Now he 
can settle down private where he belongs and get rid of his 
digestion.” 

The girls were young. When- Hilda had gone they 
nibbled the sandwiches, tentatively, out of politeness at 
first, and then with relish. By two o’clock they had become 
philosophical about the whole thing. 

“It was their idea, making us campaign,” said Adele. 
“If we boomeranged on them, they can’t blame us.” 

“And it was certainly they who wished that snake-in-the- 
grass, Len Hardesty, on us,” added Limpy. “We’d never 
have dreamed of meeting such a worm in Iowa.” 

“Maybe this will be a good lesson for Brick,” Helen de- 
cided. “If he ever finds out about it,” she added hopefully. 
And then, “Of course I shall tell him the whole thing my- 
self as soon as I see him. I wish I could tell him now. 
Maybe he would withdraw before it is too late.” 

When Hilda came to take the tray they were showing 
signs of drowsy resignation. 

“We’re going to sleep now. Will you raise the window 
and put out the lights, Hilda?” 

Hilda raised the window a scant half-inch, turned out the 
lights and left the room. 

Limpy, who had been most passionate, was asleep almost 
immediately. Adele closed her eyes but, being saddest, did 
not sleep at all. 

266 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


At three-thirty Helen got up softly, slipped down the 
hall to the Senator’s study, closed the door behind her and 
spent half an hour at the telephone. Coming out, she tip- 
toed halfway downstairs and listened. From the closed 
door of the library she could hear the faint click of type- 
writers, still at work. Hilda was sound asleep, sitting bolt 
upright in a kitchen chair. 

Helen went back to the room and switched on the lights. 
She closed the windows, lowered the blinds. 

‘Uirls !” she said in a soft, brisk voice. “Wake up ! I 
want you! Adele, wake up 1 Limpy!” 

Adele sat up at once, looking more wan-eyed, more for- 
lorn than ever. Limpy, mumbling protest, finally turned 
over and opened one eye. Helen’s first words brought her 
upright, wide awake. 

“Girls ! Get up ! Help me 1 I’m going home I” 

“Going home!” 

“This is our home I” 

“We have no home 1” 

“There’s nobody to — go home to !” 

“This is not my home. Iowa’s my home and that’s where 
I’m going.” Helen was quite calm, very businesslike. She 
no longer looked tired. “I am not going to stay here and 
face those horrible reporters tomorrow. I just can’t do it. 
They’ve been making speeches all summer about exercising 
the sacred franchise. Well, I’m going to exercise mine. 
I may get there in time to save Brick before it’s too late.” 

Limpy bounded out of bed. “When do we start?” she 
asked. 

Helen laughed. “You’re not starting at all. You’re stay- 
ing here, both of you.” 


267 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


‘‘Aw, Helen 

“Now don't try to pull that on me, you little fox. I'm 
not as weak-minded as Uncle Lancy. ... I know what I'm 
doing. My mind is made up. Adele has to stay here until 
she — patches things up with Len. And you have to stay, 
Limpy, to comfort Uncle Lancy and Aunt Olympia. After 
all, Limpy, they like you even better than the U. S. Senate. 
I'm going alone and I'm going to fly. There's a plane taking 
off at six o'clock and I'm going to catch it. I've already 
'phoned for a cab to stand outside the hedge and wait for 
me. It will cost about fifty dollars. Have you any money ?" 

The girls ran for their purses and dumped the contents 
on Helen's bed. 

“It isn't enough ; but the company will take a check for 
my fare. Do you mind if I draw on the insurance money?" 

“Helen, don't be silly!" 

“Whose money is it, anyhow ?" 

“I'll keep account of all I spend. Tomorrow — ^but not 
early, girls ; let them rest as long as they can — ^tomorrow, 
you just breeze in and tell them the speeches made such an 
impression on me that I flew out to vote. You'd better do 
the talking, Limpy, they like you best. And Adele can back 
you up. I'll take only a traveling bag — " 

“You will not 1 You'll take all your pretty clothes and 
look like a million dollars I" 

“Iowa's going to expect to see something, after your 
year in Washington!" 

“Take your wind-up costume to vote in! That'll be 
something to take a picture of !" 

The girls, too excited yet to feel the sadness of it, fell 
to packing Helen's suitcases and helping her dress. And at 

268 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


five o’clock when Limpy on the lookout reported that a 
cab had stopped near the gate behind the high hedge, Helen 
kissed them fondly, took a suitcase in each hand and slipped 
quietly down the stairs. The girls cried a little, for this was 
their first separation. ‘‘The beginning of our united end,” 
Limpy said, tearfully. 

Adele and Limpy hung out the window in the foggy 
dawn of the gray morning and watched Helen walking 
down the flagstone path, carrying her bags. At the gate, 
she turned and waved to them, and threw a kiss. Then she 
went resolutely on and disappeared from their view. The 
girls waited in the window, waving their hands, until they 
heard the motor hum away. Then they went to bed to- 
gether, their arms around each other, crying — laughing a 
little, too — ^and finally fell asleep. 


269 


Chapter XVI 


Wakening about seven-thirty they rang at once and 
Hilda appeared with a promptness almost miraculous. 
Adele and Limpy were still together in one bed, propped 
up on pillows, looking no longer wan, but cheerful and 
bright-eyed, even excited. Hilda, who had brought coffee 
for three, made no comment on Helen’s absence. She 
seemed almost cheerful that morning, a dour cheerfulness 
under close control. 

‘‘She thought Helen was in the bath,” Adele said when 
she had gone. “That’s a good thing. We don’t want her 
spilling the beans till the time comes.” 

Regularly at thirty-minute intervals after that, Hilda 
appeared to ask if they wanted an3d;hing or felt a chill. 
Usually she brought something for them on a small tray, 
fruit, hot biscuits, or cold milk. Occasionally she brought 
a message. 

“Mr. Hardesty says tell you he feels the same and more 
so,” she told Adele. 

Tears came to Adele’s eyes and she tried in vain to 
harden her heart. 

“Mr. Dodd is awake from a sleep on the davenport and 
they’re at work again and two boys answering the telephone 
and he says if you feel nervous he’ll challenge somebody.” 

“I don’t feel at all nervous,” said Limpy. “But if I see 
anybody I’m going to be very nervous, so keep everybody 
off.” 

270 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


Another time : ‘"There’s a lot of more cameramen would 
like your pictures.” 

“You tell them to mosey right along and mind their own 
business,” said Limpy. 

“You tell them the campaign’s over and we’re never 
going to have any more pictures taken as long as we live, 
so help us God,” said Adele. 

“They got reporters down there I ain’t never even seen 
before,” continued Hilda. “They say will you please 
answer a few questions ?” 

“Tell them no, we will not answer anybody anything I” 

“We don’t have to see any more reporters,” said Adele. 
“Aunt Olympia said so ! You tell them we’re in bed and 
we’re going to stay in bed and we’ve got campaign cramps.” 

“You just let us know when Uncle Lancy and Aunt 
Olympia have had their coffee and got calmed down and 
leave it to us ! This is the holy Sabbath and we’re spending 
it in bed.” 

Aunt Olympia too had slept, but brokenly. Whenever 
she wakened she repressed the wish to look in on the girls — 
repressed it for the Senator’s sake, for Lord knew he 
needed rest. After all, the girls were young; their very 
youth would bring them back on the rebound from this 
frightful catastrophe. But it was a bitter pill for the Sena- 
tor, and would require not only plenty of aspirin, whisky 
and quinine, but rest as well. So Aunt Olympia lay rigidly 
in her bed and waited for him to awaken. 

Olympia was sick at heart. The Senator would be a good 
sport about the mess, she knew that. But it would cut ! It 
would cut like the very Old Nick! A man like Senator 

271 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


Slopshire eating humble pie at the hand of a louse like 
Brother Wilkie. 

“You'd think we'd done enough for him," she mused 
wretchedly, “listening to all those poor sermons so many 
years and making a governor out of him ! And contribu- 
ting, too! Always contributing! First to the collection 
plate and then to the campaign fund ! There's no justice ! 
If only I hadn't ordered that Victory Cake !" 

She started to vent her feelings in an impatient flounce 
but, remembering how lightly the Senator slept, restrained 
herself. 

The girls would leave after this, of course. She couldn't 
blame them. They wouldn't hold her and the Senator re- 
sponsible for the outrage, but still, they couldn't help feeling 
they had had enough. Aunt Olympia had had enough, too. 
She told herself that she would be tickled pink to have it 
over and done with — except that it griped her to see Del 
play second fiddle to a louse. 

When she felt that she would blow up in spontaneous 
combustion if she lay still another minute, she turned over 
on her side, very carefully, making no sound, and took a 
look at the Senator. To her unbounded indignation he was 
lying awake, his eyes wide open, looking at her. 

“Well, for pity's sake, if you're awake why don't you 
say so?" she demanded, flouncing vigorously a half-dozen 
times or more. 

“I was keeping quiet not to waken you," he said gently. 
“You must be tired out. Can't you turn over and catch 
forty more winks or so ?" 

Aunt Olympia popped out of bed and started for her 
bathroom. The Senator went to his. And the splash of 
272 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


running water, the vigorous sloshing of toothbrushes, testi- 
fied that their night’s rest, such as it was, was over. 

Aunt Olympia was back in bed first, whiling away the 
time with a little work on her under-chin, but the Senator 
was not long behind her. 

‘T’m not even going to shave,” he said cheerfully. 
“Thank God it’s over.” 

“It’s not over for Brother Wilkie,” said Aunt Olympia. 
“I hope he splits his tonsils over the text this morning.” 

“Anyhow, we don’t have to go to church today,” said 
the Senator resignedly. 

“After all,” said Olympia reasonably, “we got along all 
right by ourselves for twenty-five years. I guess we can 
weather it again.” 

“Of course we can ! And they’ll probably enjoy visiting 
us sometimes — especially when we’re out of politics.” 

“To tell the truth, it’s a great relief to me, Del,” she said 
bravely. “Your business is your own and if you wanted to 
be senator, why, it was your say-so. But personally I’ve 
had enough and I’m glad to be out of it so we can live our 
own life for a while.” 

“We’d better have some coffee,” said the Senator. 

Hilda answered the ring with suspicious alacrity. On the 
tray, with a big pot of coffee, was fresh fruit and a small 
covered plate of hot muffins. 

“You may need sustainment,” she said grimly. 

She gave the Senator a severe look. “Mr. Allen came 
about two o’clock with a dozen more hungry politicians for 
me to feed and with blobs of blood around his nose and a 
very black eye for which I offered him a beefsteak and he 
asked me to fry it, please, and took another of the same.” 

273 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


“A bloody nose?” gasped the Senator. 

‘‘A black eye !” ejaculated Aunt Olympia. 

‘Tt seems he hit the leg of a bench as he went down but 
giving the Senator the credit,” said Hilda reprovingly. 
‘‘Anyhow they ate all the steaks and are now working on 
the ham and eggs.” 

Beneath her arm, in direct defiance of orders, Hilda 
bore a huge stack of morning papers. 

Olympia frowned at sight of them. 

“I said coffee and nothing but coffee and by all means 
none of those filthy sheets that are a profanation to the 
holy Sabbath.” 

Hilda laid the papers on the foot of Olympia’s bed and 
arranged the tray on a small table between them. Her ex- 
pression disturbed Aunt Olympia. In anybody else, it 
would have been definitely pleasurable; in Hilda, it was 
merely sardonic. 

“I thought you might like a look at the pictures any- 
how,” she said. “And besides, I had to get them out of my 
way downstairs, cluttering things up, with politicians all 
over the place.” 

“How are the girls ?” asked Uncle Lancy diplomatically. 

“They are all right — ^what I seen of them,” she added, 
with dour significance. 

“You should have been at the rally,” said Aunt Olympia, 
with a twinge that would have done justice to a toothache. 
“You’d have seen plenty of them.” 

Hilda moved toward the door. “I got to go now,” she 
said. “I been giving coffee and doughnuts and boiled eggs 
to reporters and camera men for four hours. Mr. Cooper 
and Mr. Dodd and the boys worked all night and the tele- 
274 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 

phone’s been ringin’ steady since six o’clock and they sent 
to town for more stenographers to take the messages.” 

Aunt Olympia swallowed hard. She looked at the Sen- 
ator. He was gazing at his coffee. Obliged to say some- 
thing, she said faintly, “Oh, yes. From — the constituents.” 

“From everybody I ever heard of so far and some I 
ain’t. We ain’t opened the telegrams yet. No time. We put 
them in the potato basket. I’m boiling the potatoes to make 
salad for everybody that’ll be coming before the day’s over. 
I’m boiling another ham, too.” 

Aunt Olympia groaned and closed her eyes. She waved 
feebly for Hilda to go away. 

Hilda paused once more. 

“Seems as if to me the girls did all right for theirselves,” 
she remarked cryptically and closed the door behind her. 

Aunt Olympia did not open her eyes until she could hear 
Hilda creaking downstairs. 

“After election, I’m going to fire that idiot,” she said 
bitterly. “I don’t mind her not being able to speak English, 
but she might at least make a little sense in some language !” 

“Try one of these muffins, my dear,” said the Senator. 
“Piping hot ! Hilda’s muffins make sense in any language.” 

Aunt Olympia, feeling dulled and bruised, mechanically 
set her teeth into a muffin. It was all right. Her eyes wan- 
dered to the pile of papers on the foot of the bed. Purpose- 
fully, she forced them away and looked at the Senator. He 
was looking at the papers, too, rather sheepishly, over the 
rim of his cup. 

“Whoever gave a patent to the fool that invented kodaks 
should be strung up for treason ! Freedom of the press, 
huh ? It’s freedom of the press makes cowardly slaves and 

275 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


craven knaves of otherwise good citizens. You ought to 
get up a bill about it. The press’s freedom is taxpayers’ 
poison.” She could have smiled at that. She wished the 
girls had been there to hear it. Purely extemporaneous it 
was, too. 

But her eyes would not be kept away from the pile of 
papers. She set her cup down with an impatient little crash. 

“Oh, well, we may as well have a look at the pictures, I 
suppose,” she snapped. “They’re not bow-legged, that’s 
one thing!” 

She reached for the papers and passed two or three from 
the top of the pile across to the Senator, who was reaching 
for them. They settled back on the pillows. Suddenly 
Olympia gasped. “Tch, tch, tch,” clucked the Senator, and 
kept on clucking. Olympia gazed across at him, wide-eyed, 
speechless. He gazed at her. 

“Well, God bless my soul 1 Think of that now 1” he said 
reverently. 

Then they fell desperately on the papers and silence hung 
between them, except for the crinkle of paper, occasional 
hissing sighs from Olympia and an almost continuous 
stream of clucks from the Senator. 

The election was as good as won. The girls, and the 
Senator along with them, had got a terrific press. News- 
papermen all over the state had worked on the case all 
night. They had covered the Dastardly Outrage — in large 
caps — from every possible angle. Public sentiment was 
aroused to the highest pitch; public indignation was an 
inferno. Never had the widely publicized American stand- 
ard of moral decency been so flagrantly betrayed. 

The New York Herald-Tribune came out with an edi- 

276 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


torial denunciation of tactical devices so contrary to pure 
Republican principle and ideal and declared in unprec- 
edentedly plain English that a preacher’s place — even a 
Republican preacher’s place — ^was in the pulpit. 

But the Church wasn’t going to have it shunted over 
onto its shoulders. Prominent divines had been queried 
and without exception had come out flatfootedly to say 
that their erring brother would never have stooped to such 
acts of vandalism while in the sacred precincts of the church 
and that it was only when he had wandered into the devious 
paths of politics that his foot slipped. Some said they were 
going to make a point of it in their Sunday morning ser- 
mons, holding up the misguided minister as a horrible ex- 
ample of what happens to the Man of God who chooses 
political bedfellows. 

Spokesmen for the Republican National Committee, 
being queried, at first tried good-naturedly to laugh the 
whole thing off as a stunt; but when they realized that 
public feeling was too much aroused to accept of that, theirs 
was the loudest voice raised in condemnation of such con- 
duct; only qualifying their condemnation to call attention 
to the fact that it was this same Senator Slopshire who had 
first inveigled the churchman into the field of politics, for 
which he was obviously unqualified; and citing the long 
friendship and the former close political connection be- 
tween Brother Wilkie and the Senator, suggested that in 
that close association, the Governor had doubtless become 
tarred to some extent with the Senator’s stick. 

The Democratic National Committee contented itself 
with a fog-dispelling statement by Charlie Michelson to 
the effect that if, by some further play of shenanigan, 

277 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


Brother Wilkie should reap the undeserved reward of suc- 
cess at the polls, they would unseat him on the grounds 
that his conduct was unbecoming a savage, not to say 
senator. 

‘T^d like to see Len Hardesty's face now,” said Aunt 
Olympia happily. 

Len Hardesty publicly absolved the Governor of all 
complicity and shouldered the blame for the debacle; 
Governor Wilkie pleaded complete ignorance of the entire 
matter and deplored the incident, with Scriptural quota- 
tions for good measure. But the newsmen did not let it 
rest there. They admitted that while the Governor hadn't 
been smart enough to think it up, he had certainly been 
immoral enough to try to reap the advantage of it; they 
cited his prepared speech, the use of his chauffeur, the 
arrangement of floodlights. 

The deacons of the Methodist Church at Maysville, 
hastily summoned, agreed that it would be a breach of 
Sabbath decorum, under the circumstances, for Brother 
Wilkie to occupy the pulpit that morning and a substitute 
preacher was hastily procured. 

Limpy's speech was quoted verbatim, with Helen's 
anguished ''Don't say brats” in parenthesis. Uncle Limpy's 
glasses fogged up so over Limpy's speech that Aunt 
Olympia had to read it aloud to him. 

"Now, you see, Ollie,” he said reproachfully, "Hilda 
made good sense indeed. Very good sense. 'Seems as if 
they have did all right for theirselves,' just as she said.” 

In the meantime, Hilda, with all she had on hand that 
hectic day, did not neglect to keep the secluded girls in- 
formed. 

278 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 

“They Ve rung for their coffee now,” she said. “It'll take 
’em a good thirty minutes to get recomposed.” 

At the end of an hour, she appeared again. “Mr. Hard- 
esty 'phoned have you any bad effects afterward and he 
feels the same and they ought to be composed by now, if 
ever.” 

The girls got up at once, a little frightened, but deter- 
mined. 

“Shall we dress ?” asked Adele. 

“Um, no, I think not,” said Limpy sagely. “We'd better 
go as we are. Don't brush your hair, Adele. Don't be too 
slick. We look more votes-appealy in our bathrobes and a 
little tousled. But not too tousled. Not tousled enough to 
be tough.” 

In bathrobes and slippers, effectively tousled but not 
tough, they slipped down the hall to that suddenly dread 
door — ^keeping sharp lookout for cameras as they went. 
Limpy knocked bravely but her heart was heavy. 

“Anybody but reporters can come in and welcome!” 
boomed Aunt Olympia joyously. 

Limpy opened the door. Aunt Olympia and Uncle Lancy 
were sitting bolt upright in beds strewn with pages of the 
morning papers. Both were redly flushed with excitement, 
beaming broadly. Aunt Olympia held out her arms to 
them. Uncle Lancy wiped his glasses. 

“Oh — ^hello,” said Limpy, taken aback by the surprising 
cheerfulness of the scene. 

“Good morning,” said Adele faintly. 

“Come in, you dear precious darlings,” cooed Aunt 
Olympia. 

“Ring for coffee, my dear!” said the Senator. “They 

279 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 

look pale. Sit down, girls. Nice legs you've got, my 
dears." 

The girls stopped short and looked at each other. 

‘‘Would you think maybe the campaign has gone to their 
cerebellums ?" asked Limpy. 

“How adorable and rested you do look!" said Aunt 
Olympia. “You must have had a good night's sleep." 

“Did we sleep, Adele?" 

“I don't remember." 

“We must be on guard though," said Limpy. “These 
seemingly simple cases often turn violent at a moment's 
notice." 

“We must be armed to protect ourselves," said Adele. 
“We can use chairs if we have to. Keep close to a chair, 
Limpy." 

“Oh, by the way, I forgot to tell you," said Limpy. “We 
have bad news for you." 

“Bad news 1" 

“Oh, did you catch cold ?" wailed Aunt Olympia, in an 
immediate panic. 

“No. Be calm. We didn't catch anything." Limpy's 
small face puckered with a sudden sadness. “We lost some- 
thing. We lost — " 

“Tish, tish," said the Senator kindly. “Don't give it a 
minute's thought. I'll buy you another. Where's my check- 
book?" 

“You can't buy this," said Limpy, feeling suddenly sad 
and forlorn and homesick. “It is something not for sale ! 
Never for sale! It's — Helen." 

The smile faded from the Senator's face. He glanced al- 
most accusingly at the shocked Olympia. 

280 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


‘‘You’ve — lost — Helen !” she stammered. 

“My dear,” said the Senator, reproachfully, “didn’t you 
make sure we had them all with us in the car last night ? 
Do you mean,” he went on, becoming excited, “that one of 
our children is still running around at large among Repub- 
licans in — in a wet bathing suit ?” 

Limpy laughed tearfully. “Oh, we brought her home all 
right ! — but — ^well — you know, this sacred franchise.” 

“Franchise!” ejaculated Aunt Olympia. “She’s fever- 
ish 1 She wants to buy a bus line.” 

“Not that kind of a franchise. I mean the vote. Helen 
got up this morning and took a plane out to Iowa to vote.” 

“When is she going?” demanded Aunt Olympia. 

“She’s gone. She went at six o’clock.” 

Aunt Olympia turned briskly to the Senator. “Del, make 
a note of that. Call Dave. Tell him to get it in all the 
Monday papers. That’s the kind of citizens we are I After 
a night like last night, we send one of our children by plane 
out to a dump like Iowa just to cast her sacred vote.” 

“Did — she take time to dress ?” asked the Senator. 

“Oh, yes. She dressed. We helped her. She looked 
lovely.” 

“She took the wind-up costume along to vote in,” said 
Adele helpfully. 

“Maybe she can get us our groceries at wholesale from 
this on,” said Aunt Olympia philosophically. 

“Will she be back after the election?” asked Uncle 
Lancy. 

The faint, familiar flicker flashed between the girls. 

“Um — ^well — I rather doubt it,” said Adele. 

“Not for a while, at least,” said Limpy. 


281 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


‘'She’s not going to send for you girls to come out there, 
is she ?” quavered Aunt Olympia. 

“Um — ^well — I rather doubt it,” said Adele. 

“Not for a while, anyhow,” said Limpy. 

“I’ll have her mail stopped,” declared Aunt Olympia. 
“I’ll hire a detective. I said she could go when she liked 
and she can go if she likes. But if she tries to get you 
away. I’ll sue her.” 

“She won’t try to get us,” said Adele soothingly. “She’ll 
have her hands full without us. And she may be back, 
you know.” 

“For a while, at least,” added Limpy. 

“My dear,” said the Senator suddenly, “ring for Hilda. 
Tell her to call the highest official of that line and tell him 
to report to me every hour how the plane goes through. 
This is — a murky day — for flying.” 

Tears came to Limpy ’s eyes. She went over and sat 
down beside him on the bed and kissed the rosy bald spot 
on top of his head. 

“Uncle Lancy,” she said humbly, “I’m really just sick 
about — disgracing you the way I did. I lost my temper 
and couldn’t help it. But there’s one thing you’ve got to say 
about my speech. I told the truth, and not many cam- 
paigners can say as much. I said you were a swell guy — 
and — ^you are a swell guy !” 

“You didn’t disgrace him,” said Aunt Olympia jealously. 
“Sit down, Adele. Sit here by me. Even Hilda realizes 
you seem ‘to have did all right for yourselves.’ Haven’t 
you seen the papers ?” 

The girls covered their eyes with their hands. They 
groaned. 

282 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


“No! No, please r’ 

“No papers I Anything but papers 1’^ 

“Oh, have a heart. Auntie ! Don’t rub it in 1” 

“Why, you silly little dunces — I mean darlings,” roared 
Aunt Olympia fondly. “Ever 3 ^hing’s lovely 1 Everything’s 
jake 1 In fact, hunky-dory ! They liked it.” 

“They liked w^hat?” asked Adele timidly. 

“You,” said the Senator. “All of you.” 

“They’re outraged! They’re furious! It’s an insult to 
the nation ! Their national sense of decency is cut to the 
core I” 

“I don’t blame them,” faltered Limpy. 

“No, no, not you ! The Opposition ! . . . After all, the 
public’s seen plenty of legs. Legs are nothing. . . . Though 
a God’s blessing they’re good legs, I must say. . . . It’s 
Brother Wilkie they’re cursing. Even the White House 
called up.” 

“Is — is it in the papers ?” asked Limpy feebly. 

“Certainly it is in the papers! The papers are full of 
it!” 

“Oh. . . . They are. . . . Are they? . . . Did anybody 
mention — ^my — speech ?” 

“They say it was the best speech made in any campaign 
this year. They print it in full — even to Helen’s reminding 
you about the brats. It was a great speech, Limpy. I wish 

I’d made it I just wish I could see Len Hardesty’s face 

now !” 

Limpy, blushing faintly, reached for a paper. 

“Oh, Adele,” she cried. “How sweet — ^how proud — 
you look !” 

“Look at this one of you, Limpy. Look, where you 

283 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


come out of the truck. See what it says. AMERICA’S 
LITTLEST STATESWOMAN TAKES A BOW. 
Isn’t that sweet!” 

“Look at this one of Brother Wilkie standing on the 
platform with his mouth open,” said the Senator. 

“Look at this one of Len Hardesty standing there like a 
snake-in-the-grass beside the truck as you pass by !” 

“Did — did anybody hear — ^what he said?” asked Adele, 
nervously. 

“No. It just says he was muttering angrily. What did 
he say, Adele?” 

“Oh, he just said — oh, he didn’t say anything — ^he just — 
muttered,” said Adele. 

“Look at this one of the Senator wrapping Limpy in his 
coat! Isn’t that the noblest picture you ever saw of the 
Senator? Doesn’t he look like a real Napoleon standing 
there with his arms full ?” 

“We’d better save these pictures and send them to 
Helen,” said Limpy. “She was so embarrassed. She’ll feel 
better when she sees they aren’t so bad. We don’t show 
half as much leg as girdle and stocking ads.” 

“She’ll see them,” said Aunt Olympia. “Everybody’ll 
see them.” She mopped tears of joy from her eyes. “These 
pictures have swept the country. They’ve swept the world. 
I’ll bet the King of England is looking at these pictures 
this morning. . . . Look at this one of me, Adele. It’s not 
very flattering, but it just shows how upset and motherly 
I am. It’ll pull the woman-vote.” 

Hilda appeared once more. 

“There’s an awful lot of people on their way here about 
one thing and another and there’s plenty downstairs now 
284 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


in my opinion eating us out of house and home and Mr. 
Allen says bygones is bygones — 

The Senator coughed deprecatingly. ‘‘Hilda/’ he re- 
proved her gently. “The young ladies are present. We can 
dispense ’with the — gory details.” 

“And the camera men are waiting to get a picture of you 
and him and his bloody nose with your arms around each 
other and Mr. Farley says call him as soon as you wake up 
and whatever you need you can have and that Ambassador 
to England says you can have your pick of his nine to get 
them in training for future and someone whose name we 
didn’t rightly get ’phoned from Iowa and says will Miss 
Limpy — he said Limpy — ^be his campaign manager in ’40 
and would you like more coffee ? And Mr. Hardesty ’phones 
have you any symptoms and he feels the same — ” 

“My dear,” said the Senator. “I think I’d better shave.” 


285 


Chapter XVII 


Aunt Olympia, becomingly gowned and beaming rosily, 
received the gentlemen of the press that afternoon, in 
ample time for them to get their stories in for the morning 
papers. She smilingly but firmly resisted their pleas for 
five minutes, three minutes, ji^st a look then, at the girls. 

‘‘No,’* she said in her most motherly voice, “I am sorry 
to refuse you anything. But you do not understand a 
mother’s feelings. The campaign is important ; yes ! But 
the health and the nerves of these children come first with 
their Uncle Lancy and me. Remember the terrible ordeal 
they were dragged through. They need rest. They need 
quiet. They have stood all they shall be permitted to stand. 
But, I must say that three more gallant, public-spirited 
young citizens never lived than those children, mine and 
the Senator’s. . . . Tired, nervous, suffering with chills and 
fever as she was, Helen — she’s the oldest — she’s twenty- 
one — ^got up this morning and took the six o’clock plane out 
to Iowa to vote. She’s a resident of Iowa. Exhausted, 
worried, sick, she just rallied her forces and out she went 
to exercise the sacred franchise.” 

Olympia went to her desk and shuffled among the photo- 
graphs. “This is Helen,” she said. “She’s very studious. 
She graduated from college with all kinds of honors when 
she was only twenty. This shows her at work at the Sen- 
ator’s table — making out her grocery list, I fancy. . . . 
Adele and little Limpy are more playful. Here’s a nice one 

286 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


of them together in the big swing at Commonwealth Park. 
Sweet, isn^t it ? Here they are raking leaves for a bonfire 
on Hallowe’en. This is Limpy; named for me, of course, 
and some people think she looks like me, too, in a small 
way.” 

The girls spent the day quietly upstairs and amused 
themselves very well with the papers, smirking over the 
photographs, which were surprisingly good. Limpy was 
not so well pleased with the verbatim report of her speech. 

‘T see what Aunt Ol 3 mipia meant,” she mused. “It 
doesn’t pay to be too extemporaneous.” 

Flowers came for the girls, telegrams, letters, small 
gifts ; and for Limpy a big ivory donkey, handsomely auto- 
graphed in green ink: 

“Limpy for President in ’58, 

“And for Campaign Manager, 

Your Old Pal, 

Jim.” 

Aunt Olympia, her weariness forgotten, her ill humor dis- 
solved in contentment, was deliriously happy. She, too, 
received flowers, telegrams and gifts. She read the basket- 
ful of congratulations. She cooed into the telephone. She 
crooned over the girls. She almost felt satisfied with the 
Senator. 

On Monday, the press was still burnt up over the Out- 
rage, and the big New York and Philadelphia papers were 
as bitter as the smallest country dailies. Phelps Adams, in 
the stanchly Republican Evening Sun, took time out from 
the affairs of Palestine long enough to write a paragraph 

287 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


heartily excoriating such utterly un-Republican conduct. 

Harold Brayman, erudite correspondent for the Public 
Ledger, viewed with alarm this further deviation from the 
high moral tone which had always characterized the Grand 
Old Party in Pennsylvania. 

And because they were Iowa orphans who had suffered 
this indignity — and once an Iowan, always corn-fed — Dick 
Wilson, of the Des Moines Register and Leader, became so 
worked up over it that he entirely forgot his own campaign 
for the vice presidency of the National Press Club and 
drew no end of morals from the entire incident, climaxed 
with the opinion that lambs like Iowa Republican orphans 
have no real place in the lions’ den of a Democratic cam- 
paign. 

The Senator made his final appeal over the radio on 
Monday night and an effective job he made of it ; speaking 
with quiet dignity, restraint and reasonableness, pointedly 
ignoring personal phases except for one paragraph, which 
the entire staff had a hand in preparing. 

“My friends, I address you tonight on the issues of this 
campaign. I speak only of the issues. The sad infringe- 
ment of the sanctity of my home is not one of these issues. 
My personal feelings in that tragic matter are relegated to 
the background at this time. But to those thousands of 
you, my friends, who have written, telephoned and wired 
solicitous inquiry as to the health of my young wards, and 
whether they have suffered serious ill effects from the phys- 
ical and mental anguish of their tragic and deplorable ex- 
perience, I am happy to relieve your fears. The children 
are young, but they are brave and high-spirited. In the 
safe serenity of my home at Maysville, in quiet seclusion, 

288 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


they are recovering from the brutal shock to their inno- 
cent trust and confidence which was even greater than their 
physical discomfort. And the eldest of them, Helen, has 
arrived safely in Iowa by plane where on the morrow she 
is to cast her first vote as an American citizen.” 

Tuesday, the eighth of November, was election day. The 
Senator and Mrs. Slopshire had planned — ^and made public 
pronouncement to that effect — that after casting early 
votes, they would spend the day quietly at home with the 
children, having a large family dinner — a pre-Thanks- 
giving, it was, really — in the middle of the day, and in the 
evening, from six o’clock on would be at home to their 
friends with a buffet supper and listen to the returns. 

In the Governor’s Mansion on the other side of Mays- 
ville, the Opposition was to be entertained at an evening 
reception with light refreshments. 

‘‘They’ll be light,” said 01)mipia, reading the announce- 
ment in the paper. “Very light. Almost too light to lift. 
He’s already begun cutting down — ever since Adele pointed 
out the handwriting on the wall.” 

Olympia, although she wanted desperately to have the 
pride of taking the girls with her to the polls, finally de- 
cided against it. They couldn’t vote, and she was a little 
afraid it would look like “putting on.” She wasn’t above 
“putting on” all she could, but she didn’t want it to 
look obvious. This, she felt, would look obvious. And 
then, at the last moment, she had cause to regret her 
restraint. 

Ben Baldy had drawn the big car up to the west veranda 
to convey them to the voting place. The Senator was 
waiting, hat and gloves in hand, Limpy and Adele were 

289 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


there, dancing a-tiptoe with excited farewells, speeding 
them on to victory. Dave was stolidly planted in the front 
seat with Ben Baldy. Aunt Olympia, having kept them 
waiting only fifteen minutes, came out in a rosy flush. She 
kissed the girls and permitted the Senator to assist her into 
the tonneau and seat himself at her side. 

“Come along, Cece !*’ she boomed joyously. 

“Oh, Fm not going said Cecil Dodd. “Fm not a resi- 
dent of this state. I can’t vote here.” 

“Well, why don’t you go home and vote then? You’ve 
time enough to make it !” 

“I can’t. I was so worked up over the campaign I forgot 
to register.” 

“Well, come along anyhow!” said Olympia, sudden 
anxiety darkening her happy eyes. “Come along and 
watch us.” 

“I can’t I” said Cece desperately. “Fve got to shave.” 

“Shave!” she boomed angrily. “Shave! If you aren’t 
shaved already — ^yes, and half an inch below the surface — 
then Fve lived with whiskers for nothing.” 

“Okay, Ben!” said the Senator cheerfully. “Good-by, 
girls! Be good children now.” 

And the big car rolled away. 

“Isn’t everything lovely?” exulted Limpy. “Isn’t every- 
thing sweet? Aren’t you happy ?” 

“I am right now,” said Cecil Dodd. “But it won’t last. 
They ought to make voting more difficult and more pro- 
longed. It ought to take at least as long as making out your 
income tax.” 

“Oh, well, make the most of the minute !” said Limpy. 
She caught a hand of Adele’s, one of Cecil’s, and led them 
290 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


gaily back into the house. ‘Tet’s do something to celebrate 1 
Something exciting! Something naughty, if possible.^^ 

*Tt’s exciting for me just to be able to look where I 
want to,’’ said Cecil Dodd. “And nothing naughty about it, 
either.” 

“Think of something naughty 1” urged Limpy. 

“No, let’s not,” said Adele. “We’ve been naughty 
enough. And I feel responsible, with everybody else away. 
You’d better keep your eyes on me, Cece.” 

“No, damned if I will,” he said heartily. 

“That’s nice 1 That’s very naughty !” encouraged Limpy. 
“Swear some more, Cece, swear louder.” 

Hilda entered the room with a tray. “I brought some 
cider for you gir — ladies,” she said crossly. “And a little 
pick-up for Mr. Dodd. It’s customary to drink the health 
of the polls.” 

“Oh, that’s nice ! Maybe we should have a pick-up too, 

Adele 1 That would be very naughty Hilda, come here ! 

Where are you going ? Don’t you drink to the health of the 
polls ? How irreverent you are 1” 

Cecil filled the glasses. Hilda, acquiescent but indignant, 
accepted her glass and stood by in angular disapproval, 
clicking her glass with the others as they drank their toasts. 

“Sloppy for Senator 1” 

“More votes to Sloppy 1” 

“Slower votes for Sloppy 1” from Cecil Dodd. 

“Down with Wilkie!” 

“Up with Olympia !” 

“Bigger and better eyes for me,” said Cecil Dodd, doing 
very well with those he had. 

When they had finished, Limpy made them all hold 

291 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


hands and dance around the low coffee table that held the 
cider pitcher and the siphon and glasses. 

“Here we go ’round the mulberry bush,” she sang. 

“Let’s give Sloppy a landslide push,” suggested Cecil 
Dodd. And they sang it gaily. 

“Time flies fast and we’d better hush — ^pronounced like 
bush,” said Adele. And they sang that. 

“I got to go now,” said Hilda. “I forgot to tell you, Mr. 
Hardesty called up and says he feels the same and he’s as 
good as out of a job right now and he’ll be here for break- 
fast tomorrow.” 

She stalked away. 

“Adele, dear Adele,” said Cecil Dodd. “Poor Len! 
Think of his — ^his anguish. ... I know my anguish. . . . 
Pity him in his distress. Not only has he nothing to look 
at, he has no job ; he can only sit there thinking up Biblical 
quotations for his dishonored candidate. Don’t you think 
you should go and call him up or write him a note or just 
go off into some remote silence and send him a tender 
thought ?” 

“I do not think any such thing,” said Adele, laughing. 
“I think I shall be an assistant Aunt Olympia and stick 
around. . . . However, I am going out on the west veranda 
to pick a few of those late chrysanthemums. And as soon 
as I hear the car coming I’ll be right back on the job 
again.” 

She went out laughing. 

“She’s a swell gal,” said Cecil Dodd. 

He went then and sat on the arm of Limpy’s chair. “The 
trouble is,” he said gravely, “that I’m the only person on 
earth who realizes how old you are.” 

292 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


“Well, you can^t say I haven^t told them !” said Limpy 
indignantly. 

Cecil started to put his arm around her. Then he 
stopped, stood up, moved a few steps away from her. 

“Another trouble is,’* he went on gloomily, “they’ve 
nagged at me so much and harped on it so consistently, 
I’m beginning to think maybe you are young.” 

Limpy frowned at that. “Well, just remember that I’ve 
got a job as campaign manager for ’40 and that’s more 
than any of you antedeluvians can say!” 

Cecil frowned, too. “That was a funny thing. . . . And 
they couldn’t get his name. . . . But I daresay you know 
who it was.” 

“Certainly I know who it was. In about twelve hours 
he’s going to be the newly elected Republican Congress- 
man from our district in Iowa. And Helen’s going to 
marry him when they get around to it.” 

Cecil broke down then. He threw both arms around 
Limpy, and kissed her, on the ear. Then his lips crept along 
her cheek and arrived at last, timidly, at her lips. 

“I’ll tell Aunt Olympia,” she said finally, not having 
hurried him. 

“ ‘A-tisket a-tasket,’ ” sang Adele warningly before she 
entered the room. “I hear the hum of returning votes. 
Where’s your razor, Cece?” 

“A swell girl! I always said so,” said Cecil over his 
shoulder, already on his way upstairs. 

Aunt Olympia’s first words were, “What’s Cece been 
doing?” 

“He said he had to shave,” said Adele. 

Her eyes, and Limpy’s eyes, went guiltily to the low 

293 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


coffee table. But Hilda, tidily and unobserved had re- 
moved tray and glasses. 

The rest of the day passed in comfortable quiet. Ben 
took the big car and Martin the two-seated Ford to help 
round up delinquent voters and deliver them safely to the 
polls. The girls played tennis between showers with Cecil 
Dodd, under the watchful eye of Aunt Olympia sitting near 
by in a large camp chair, sheltered against both intermit- 
tent rain and sun by a large umbrella. Dave Cooper treated 
himself to a well-earned nap on the library divan. Hilda, 
reinforced by two assistants, had a hard day making prepa- 
ration for the evening buffet which, as Aunt Olympia 
said — and said it ungrudgingly, too — ^had to be worth a 
month’s salary. 

At five o’clock she began laying the tables. Hilda was 
adept at this. She had learned from experience that while 
the spread must at all times look bountiful and even lavish, 
an abundance must be held in reserve for belated arrivals. 
But the provision was ample for any contingency. There 
were roast turkeys, baked hams, sliced tongue, and pickled 
pig’s feet for the more aristocratic constituents who liked 
to go plebeian on election night; there were sandwiches, 
salads, baked beans, deviled eggs and aspics; there were 
cheeses, candies, nuts, cigarettes and cigars; there were 
ices, teacakes and pies. And on a small table, beautifully 
decorated and lighted with candles, stood the Victory Cake, 
two feet high, three feet in diameter. Aunt Olympia was 
glad she hadn’t canceled that order. 

By seven o’clock, when the polls closed, the household 
was in readiness. Uncle Lancy looked suave and senatori- 
al; Aunt Olympia beamed like a sunburned and over- 
294 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


nourished favorite of Jove; Cecil Dodd took advantage of 
the occasion to present himself in white tie and tails but 
Dave stuck to his sack suit, and at the last minute decided 
against changing his shirt. The girls were a little distressed 
about the still unworn wind-up costumes, but Aunt Olympia 
decided they were a little too autumnal for an indoor re- 
ception and recommended graceful and becoming — though 
old — chiffons. 

Exactly at seven, cars began streaming into the grounds, 
and laughing, joyous, congratulating guests were soon 
drifting through the house and lining up at the tables. Only 
in the library the doors were closed and silence was main- 
tained, for there the elect were to listen to the returns. 
Loudspeakers had been set up in other parts of the house, 
too, but not much attention was paid to them, except that 
every mention of “Senator Slopshire’’ brought cheers and 
a demand for one more toast. 

Adele, catching Limpy's eye, summoned her to a corner 
of the corridor with a suggestive lilt of silken lashes. 

“Darling,” she whispered, “everybody says it is a land- 
slide for Uncle Lancy. Len must be sick — just sick ! The 
Governor is out and Len will not have a job and — don’t you 
think, darling, it would be nice for me to slip over to the 
Governor’s mansion a minute and — sort of cheer him up ?” 

“You’ll get your picture taken!” warned Limpy. 

“Oh, no I won’t. I’ll change into my wind-up costume ; 
nobody’s seen that; and they don’t know me so well over 
there. I’ll wear a dark veil. Only Len will recognize me 
and he’ll hold them off.” 

“Well, as a holder-off, I wouldn’t call him tops myself,” 
said Limpy. 


295 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


‘T feel so sorry for him, darling. I’ve made it awfully 
hard for him, and even Aunt Olympia says it wasn’t his 
fault. Maybe my conscience hurts.” 

“Maybe it’s just your heart,” said Limpy. “There’s 
some kind of tie-up between them.” 

“But think how much better he would feel — just to see 
me — ^and know that everything’s going to be all right.” 

“You’re wanted on long distance,” interrupted Hilda 
crossly. “The both of you. It’s Iowa.” 

“Helen!” 

The girls raced upstairs to the study telephone. Adele, 
being older, took the receiver. “Hello — darling 1” she said. 

“Adele, is Limpy there ? . . . Are you all right ? . . . How 
is the Senator coming along?” 

“Oh, fine. A landslide, they say.” 

“Listen, darling. Get Limpy close to the ’phone, so she 
can hear, too. The returns won’t begin coming in here for 
three or four hours, but Brick and I are going to get mar- 
ried. Right away, girls. I wanted you here, but — ^we want 
to do it now, so we will be together — ^however it goes. At 
eight o’clock, girls. So at eight o’clock, you slip off and say 
a little prayer for Brick and me, will you ? You’d better not 
tell Auntie till tomorrow. I can imagine what a wreck she 
is! Wasn’t Limpy’s speech great? Everybody is crazy 
about it out here. . . . Adele, I know you and Len will get 
together again, but — ^tell Limpy — she is to come and live 
with us. Brick wants her, too. It may be Congress and it 
may be the same old grocery store. But we want Limpy. 
Don’t forget, girls. At eight.” 

The girls waited. And a little before eight, they went 
upstairs together and closed the door of their room and 
296 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


locked it. They both stood up, holding hands, and at eight 
o'clock, Adele said, ‘‘God bless Helen and Brick," and 
Limpy said, “Amen." And then they wept, but happily, in 
each other's arms. 

As a matter of fact, Helen was not married till a full 
hour later, for the girls had forgotten the difference be- 
tween Eastern Standard and Central time, but already their 
loving prayer had gone winging on its way. 

Then Adele, wrapped in a long dark cape over her ex- 
pensive wind-up costume, with a dark veil shielding her 
face under the jaunty felt hat, kissed Limpy and smiled. 

“Adele, if I could only go with you!" pleaded Limpy. 
“It makes me very nervous for you to go off alone — on 
such an exciting night — " 

“You have to stay, darling. If Auntie sees you she won't 
miss me. I shan't be gone long; just long enough to tell 
him it's all right." 

“The reporters'll catch you if you don't watch out." 

“I'll watch out. Anyhow, it's too late now to lose the 
election." 

Adele slipped quietly out and Limpy was left alone ; alone, 
except for the Senator and Aunt Olympia and the reporters 
and publicity men and some two or three hundred noisy 
guests. But she felt very much alone. She went in and 
stood close to Aunt Olympia. She looked small and her 
impish sparkle had faded to a plaintive wistfulness. 

“Don't you feel well, Limpy?" demanded Olympia, in 
sudden fright. “You look pale. You'd better go to bed. 
You'd better take an aspirin. Del 1 Where's Del? Tell him 
to call a doctor." 

“I feel all right. Auntie," said Limpy, sadly. “I just 

297 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 

feel — lonesome. I — just feel like being as close to you as I 
can.’’ 

Tears came to Aunt Olympia’s eyes. “Limpy !” she said 
fondly. ‘‘Such a week as it’s been! You wait, Limpy. 
We’ll make it up to you. We’ll go someplace — anyplace 
you want — ^you and Adele can decide it. . . . And you can 
play and dance and have a good time. Here, sit here by 

me. Give her a pillow, Cece. . . . You can go now, Cece. 

She’s tired ; she can’t talk. Hilda I Where’s Hilda ? Bring 
her a sandwich, Hilda.” 

In the grounds surrounding Shires, in the streets, and 
all through the town of Maysville, sirens shrieked, horns 
blared, excited voices roared approving cheers. 

Inside the Senator’s house, telephones rang, glasses 
clicked, and in the library, the radio blared returns. 

“Lehman and Dewey running neck and neck I” “Willis 
has a slight edge in Indiana.” “Gillette of Iowa is trailing.” 
“Wagner forges ahead.” “Barbour is out in front.” “It’s 
a landslide in Maryland.” “The Solid South — still solid.” 
“Murphy lags in Michigan.” “Slopshire far in the lead.” 
“McCarran holding his own in Nevada.” 

“You’re wanted on the ’phone,” said Hilda to Limpy, 
in a diplomatic whisper. “They been trying to get you 
thirty minutes but couldn’t worm through them con- 
grats.” 

Limpy ran up to the telephone once more. 

“Limpy!” It was Adele’s voice. “Darling — Limpy — 
Len feels terribly, darling. I haven’t cheered him up as 
much as I expected. The Governor is furious at him — 
though very polite in public. And he’s out of a job, as I 
expected. And after all. I’m entitled to part of the insur- 
298 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


ance, don^t you think so? And I think it's really my duty 
to use it, my share of it, I mean, to keep the wolf off Len 
till he gets a job. . . . Are you listening, Limpy ?" 

“Am I listening? . . . Are you nuts? . . . You sound 
nuts I . . . Listen, Adele, this racket's too tough for us. We 
haven't got the alligator hides to take it. Now you take an 
aspirin and call the doctor and — " 

“We've already called a clerk to rig up a marriage license, 
and we've arranged for Brother Wilkie to perform the cere- 
mony and we think we'd better just get married, darling, 
and settle down," finished Adele. 

Limpy swallowed hard. This was worse than she had 
expected. 

“It sounds like something Len Hardesty would cock up, 
the worm !" she said, with tears in her eyes. “Where do 
you plan to do this — dastardly deed ?" 

“Here, Limpy. At the Governor's mansion. There's not 
much going on here." 

“Adele, now you listen to me for a change. I'm coming 
to the wedding. . . . Oh, yes, I am. . . . I've got some family 
rights, haven't I? I've been cheated here — ^and cheated 
there — ^but this time I'm coming. I want to be the brides- 
maid." 

“Limpy, think of Auntie's nerves !" 

“ ‘Think of fiddlesticks !' " quoted Limpy fiercely. “If 
you do anything before I get there. I'll file papers of annul- 
ment. I'll get Aunt Olympia to sue somebody. If you 
could get along without speaking to him for six weeks, you 
can certainly wait five minutes to marry him. Good-by." 

Limpy raced downstairs. The first thing she caught was 
Cecil's eye. She gave him an inviting lilt of her small head. 

299 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


**Ctce” she whispered. ‘TVe got to disappear for a few 
minutes.’’ 

‘‘Swell! I’ll disappear with you.” 

“No, you can’t. If we both disappear, Aunt Ol 3 mipia’ll 
get out a search warrant. I’m in a — very tight place. I — 
I’ve got nobody but you, Cece, to depend on. . . . Aw, 
Cece?” 

“What do you want me to do ?” he demanded. 

“I want you to keep yourself right in front of Aunt 
Olympia till I get back, so she can see you every minute 
and know you’re not off some place looking at me. I feel 
terrible — left alone — and lonesome, Cece. I don’t know 
what I’d do if I hadn’t you to* depend on.” 

“Okay,” he said. “Don’t be gone long or I’ll get out a 
search warrant myself. Can I get you started or any- 
thing?” 

“How good are you to me, Cece,” she said gratefully. 
“No. Just get m front of Aunt Olympia.” 

Suddenly remembering that though the day had been 
mild, it was a fall night and the papers had predicted a cold 
snap with flurries of snow, she caught the first wrap she 
could lay hand on. It was a very nice squirrel jacket. It 
belonged to Mrs. Mabel Shane-Tompkins, Chairman of the 
Ladies’ Division of the State Committee. 

As she was struggling to get her arms into it, she was 
disconcerted to find Hilda helping her. 

“Oh. . . . It’s you,” she said. Then, “If Aunt 01)mipia 
asks about me, you can just say I’ve gone to — snatch a little 
rest — and I’ll be back pretty soon ; and I’m quite all right 
now and I’ve taken an aspirin and tomorrow will be 
plenty of time to call the doctor.” 

300 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


Hilda gave her a very ugly look. 

‘Tt doesn’t seem as if to me you’re exactly dressed for no 
rest,” she said. 

‘T do my best resting in furs,” said Limpy, firmly. ‘Tt’s 
a habit. Tell her I’ll be back — I mean down — very soon.” 

Then she put her squirrel-swathed arms around Hilda 
and kissed her. ‘"Oh, Hilda,” she said. ‘‘You’ll have to be 
a sister to me from this on. They’re — ^both gone. . . . 
You’re all I have left.” 

Hilda squared her very square shoulders. “I’ll stand 
guard on your door over my dead body,” she said. “You 
got a car?” 

“No. I’ll find a taxi running around somewhere.” 

“You better go out through my kitchen. They got a 
hired doorman in front.” 

Hilda went with her. Rushed as she was, and for all her 
fury of indignation, Hilda realized that Limpy was the 
big job around that house. She called a policeman and 
had him pick up a car, and waited with Limpy till it came. 
Hilda gave the driver his orders. 

“You take her wherever she’s going and wait for her and 
bring her back. I got your number and I got influence with 
the Senator and you take her and bring her back with no 
back-talk from anybody or I speak to the Senator about 
it.” 

Hilda was no coward. She went straight to Aunt 
Olympia. 

“I just put Miss Limpy where seems as if to me maybe 
she can get a little rest for a while and God knows she 
needs it and I’ll have her on hand for when they get 
through giving all them dumb states nobody ever heard of 

301 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


and we cut the Victory Cake and here’s another plate of 
sandwiches.” 

“That was very nice of you, Hilda,” said Olympia grate- 
fully. “Very nice. Did you give her an aspirin ?” 

“I gave her everything she needed,” said Hilda with 
surprising diplomacy. “And nobody’s to bother her in no 
way till I say so or I speak to the Senator.” 

“That’s fine! You keep watch over Limpy and I’ll keep 
an eye on Cece — ^and the other guests,” she added quickly. 

“Slopshire wins in a walk!” announced the radio. 
“Murphy lost in the shuffle.” “Van Nuys and Willis neck 
and neck.” “Gillette, after trailing a while, pulls slowly 
ahead.” “Case, of South Dakota, wins by the largest 
majority ever given a candidate in that state.” “Lehman 
increases his lead.” “It’s all over with Wilkie ; he can never 
overtake the Senator.” 




302 


Chapter XVIII 


When it was evident that the Senator had indisputably 
won, when Brother Wilkie had, without Biblical quotation, 
conceded his defeat, they had a fresh bowl of punch and 
cut the Victory Cake. Aunt Olympia wouldn’t allow the 
girls to be disturbed. It was Cecil Dodd who first sug- 
gested it, and that alone was enough to stiffen her deter- 
mination. 

“Hilda put them to bed and they’re staying in bed,” 
she said decisively. “We’ll save them a piece of cake. To- 
morrow, I’ll buy them a whole cake if they want it. They’re 
not to be disturbed any more tonight.” 

Presently the guests began drifting away. They had 
worked hard during the campaign. They were worn to 
the ragged edge. Now, well dined, well wined, they were 
ready for bed. Mrs. Mabel Shane-Tomkins was a good 
deal disconcerted not to lay immediate hand on her squirrel 
jacket, and muttered a few disagreeable remarks about 
what you could expect among politicians, drunk with the 
spoils of victory. But Hilda was sardonically diplomatic 
about it. 

“I’ll give you a receipt for the coat and see you get it and 
here I got Mis’ Slopshire’s mink coat for you which cost 
the Senator plenty dough and as good as new. I been sort of 
removing things around and putting ’em away in safety 
including Miss Limpy and I probably put your squirrel 
away in safety but I got no time right now to get into 

303 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


the — storage for it. I’ll see you get it tomorrow and you 
needn’t give me a receipt for Mis’ Slopshire’s mink ’cause 
I know you got it so you take the mink and if you don’t get 
your squirrel tomorrow you can keep the mink and Mis’ 
Slopshire can fight it out with the Senator.” 

Not more than a dozen remained, clustered in the library, 
avidly drinking in the late returns, when Hilda, who had 
been a good deal upset over the whole matter in her cold, 
Scandinavian way, saw a cab turn into the drive and pull 
up to the western veranda. She had the door open for 
Limpy. 

“You forgot your aspirin and Mis’ Slopshire’s a good 
deal upset about it and kindly give me that squirrel ’cause 
Mis’ Slopshire’s going to be as mad as a wet hen if she 
doesn’t get back her mink that cost the Senator two thou- 
sand dollars and wasn’t worth it in my opinion,” was her 
surly greeting. “And they’re all in the Library now and 
asleep on their feet and me the same.” 

Limpy gave her the coat. “Oh, Hilda,” she said. “If I 
feel very lonesome tonight — ^and can’t sleep — may I come 
and get in bed with you? I feel — very lonesome.” 

“I’ll change the sheets,” said Hilda. “I’ll bring you a 
turkey sandwich.” 

Limpy opened the door of the library. She looked very 
small and pale. 

“Oh, Aunt Olympia, I’ve got bad news for you,” she 
said timidly. 

“Bad news I There is no bad news I Why, he won in a 
walk !” 

“Oh, how terrible!” said Limpy. “Are you sure? . . . 
Then probably he’ll never get a job and it will take all the 
304 


THE HONORABLte UNCLE LANCY 

insurance money to support them and Fm no better than a 
pauper.” 

Uncle Lancy straightened his glasses for a better look 
at her. Cecil Dodd turned off the radio. Every eye was on 
Limpy. 

‘‘My dear,” said the Senator reproachfully, “she’s fever- 
ish ! Haven’t you been keeping an eye on her ?” 

Hilda came to the door. “Well, here’s two sandwiches 
and a glass of cider and you’re wanted on the ’phone and 
it’s Iowa again.” 

Limpy didn’t bother to go upstairs. She leaped lithely 
to the ’phone on the Senator’s big table. 

“Darling!” she said. And after a long pause. “Dar- 
ling ! . . . Oh, darling 1 . . . Good-by.” 

“Three dollars for three darlings,” said Aunt Olympia. 

“And cheap at the price,” said Cecil Dodd. 

Hilda had waited dourly with the sandwiches and cider. 

“You’d better eat a bite,” she said. “You look pretty 
washed out to me.” 

Limpy took the plate, with a melting smile into Hilda’s 
resentful blue eyes. “Oh, thank you ! How good you are 
to me! Oh, Auntie, I forgot to tell you the bad news!” 

“There isn’t any bad news,” said Aunt Olympia. 
“Brother Wilkie’s already conceded.” And then, in a 
panicky voice she added, “Unless you’ve got a chill ! Hilda, 
where’s that aspirin?” 

“I haven’t. But Auntie — ^you — ^you remember Helen, 
don’t you?” Aunt Olympia’s lips parted but she had 
nothing to say. Uncle Lancy coughed deprecatingly. “Well, 
she voted all right. And her vote counted, too. Her con- 
gressman won. But that isn’t the worst of it. You know 

305 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


Helen ! She wasn’t satisfied with just voting for a candi- 
date, so she went right ahead and — married him. She wore 
her wind-up costume to do it in. A swell chap, Uncle 
Lancy, though Republican. The Republicans are quite 
good class, in Iowa.” 

“She married a — congressman-elect!” ejaculated Aunt 
Olympia. “What’s she going to do about that grocery 
store ?” 

“Oh, that’s so, too 1 Well, you know Iowa, Auntie. Such 
a state! The grocery store turns out to be the congress- 
man-elect and now he’s my brother-in-law.” 

Aunt Olympia was surprised but she rallied. After 
all, she had known from the beginning that Helen was lost 
to her. 

“Well,” she said cheerfully, “that bucks up my grocery 
bill no end. We’ll charge from this on.” 

“Oh, but darling, that isn’t all!” said Limpy warn- 
ingly. . . What a day it has been !” 

“You mean there’s more? Don’t tell me she’s suing for 
a divorce already !” 

“No. It’s . . . Adele.” 

The sudden silence rather frightened Limpy. Uncle 
Lancy took off and put on his glasses several times. Aunt 
Olympia sat motionless. 

“You see. Auntie, darling Auntie — ^Adele — she’s so 
tender-hearted ! She felt so sorry for Len, the poor dumb 
cluck; with the Governor mad at him, and no job, and 
Adele not speaking to him for six weeks. So she went 
over for a minute — ” 

“She went over where ?” 

“Oh, just over to the Governor’s mansion ! To see Len a 

306 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


minute and cheer him up. And so they decided they’d 
better get married and I went over and Brother Wilkie 
married them. I was sad about it, of course, but it was 
rather amusing. It wasn’t at all political. Uncle Lancy. 
Brother Wilkie performed the ceremony and they used the 
defunct victory cake for a wedding cake. And the brats 
and I were the bridesmaids but the beldame got mixed up 
and thought it was another speech and right in the middle 
of the ceremony she banged with her trumpet and shouted, 
Tell em, Nevvy !’ But you certainly can’t blame Adele, for 
what could she do about it? She’s always been tender- 
hearted ! . . . Aw, Uncle Lancy !” 

The Senator wiped his glasses. “He’s a nice boy,” he 
said. “I always liked Len. It wasn’t till the church got 
hold of him that he began going to the dogs. Once he 
shakes the pulpit off his coattails, he’ll be all right.” 

Aunt Olympia rallied to this more slowly. 

“You mean — she’s already married him?” she asked in 
a strangled voice. 

“Yes. And perfectly legal too. And quite impressive — 
except for the beldame and the brats. It was almost ele- 
gant. She had lovely flowers — ^but no ring; they hadn’t 
time for that ; and probably no money for it, either. They’re 
going to live on our insurance until he lands a job.” 

“Well, there’s one thing, Del,” said Olympia, “if you 
run for the presidency, you’ve got a publicity man. I’m not 
afraid of Len Hardesty. It just takes a firm hand to hold 
him down and I’ve got a firm hand. Sit down, Limpy. 
Hilda, bring her an aspirin. I mean a sandwich.” 

“Oh, but Auntie — darling !” wailed Limpy. “You haven’t 
heard the bad news yet I” 


307 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


‘‘The — ^bad — news ? There can’t be more ! There couldn’t 
be more, Del !” she said, in a voice suddenly accusing. 

“About me,” said Limpy humbly. 

Aunt Olympia went weak then. She looked dully in the 
direction of Cecil Dodd. She couldn’t even find voice to 
express her intention of strangling him. 

Limpy broke in quickly, with diplomatic acumen. “Oh, 
no, darling, not that !” she said. “I mean — ^you’re stuck !” 

“Stuck! We’re stuck? You mean the election? Have 
things gone wrong ? Turn up that radio !” 

“Oh, no. Auntie, not the election. Just me. You’re stuck 
with me from this on,” said Limpy pathetically. “Here I 
am, one poor lone orphan — no home — no Helen — no 
Adele — no insurance money! Of course, Helen and Brick 
say I can live with them, and Adele and Len say I must live 
with them, but I don’t approve of outsiders going to live 
with young married couples, do you. Aunt Olympia ? So — 
you’re — just — stuck !” 

“What’ll you take for your option. Senator?” said Cecil 
Dodd, briskly. 

Aunt Olympia broke into happy tears. She held out her 
arms to Limpy. “My child !” she said. “My child !” 

Limpy started, but the Senator, being closer, caught her 
first. 

“We won’t let you be lonesome, Limpy,” he assured her. 
“You can go around with me as much as you like. I’ll go 
down town first thing tomorrow and buy you something. 
What do you want, Limpy? I’ll buy you anything.” 

“Del Slopshire!” boomed Aunt Olympia indignantly. 
“You give me that child! You may be a United States 
308 


THE HONORABLE UNCLE LANCY 


Senator but you needn’t go setting yourself up as that 
child’s mother! You hand her right here.” 

“Anything you want,” repeated the Senator, speaking 
to Limpy, still holding her. “Anything.” 

“Ask for an assistant publicity man, Limpy, quick!” 
suggested Cecil Dodd. 

“Del, you silly dunce!” cried Aunt Olympia happily. 
“It’s not presents that child wants. It’s folks ! And you’ve 
got them, Limpy! You’ve got them! . . . Hilda! Where’s 
Hilda ? Hilda, bring back that Victory Cake !” 

The End 


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Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. 
Neutralizing Agent: Magnesium Oxide 
Treatment Date: . -tnm 

kob liJof 



aBKKEEPER 


PRESERVATION TECHNOLOGIES. INC. 
1 1 1 Thomson Park Drive 


Cranberry Twp., PA 16066 
(412)779-2111 




